The Best Laid Plans
by Midasgirl
Summary: It's time for Christine to return to the Opera, and an encounter with Erik would seem to mend the past - but the managers have a plan of their own.
1. Chapter 1

A/N - This is set about a month after the ALW version of POTO - Christine is living with Raoul and Erik is still under the Opera. And for all the Raoul lovers out there, I'm going to try and make him a nice Raoul - tribute to Matt Cammelle, Steve Barton, and Christopher Carl - my three favourite Raouls of all time :) Oh, yes, and the mean ballet girl - I couldn't think of an appropriate name, so I named her after Cosette of Les Mis fame - I've never been keen on her. But she's not based on Cosette as a character, so please don't flame me for any OOCness!! This is the beginning of a fic I wrote quite a while ago (with a _seriously_ unkind Christine!) but it's been revamped a little and for the first time ever, I actually have the plot planned out in my head before I start on a long fic! Not that I'll probably stick to it, mind you ... ;) )

Disclaimer: Christine and Erik belong to Gaston Leroux; so does the daroga and anyone else who looks familiar. I'm just playing with them. The managers are ALW's, and anything else probably isn't mine either :) The title is a quote from a poem - I'm not entirely sure who wrote it, but the entire quotation is more famous for being the title of the novel "Of Mice and Men" (wonderful book, by the way!) Anyway. Not mine.

__

"But there are very few of us who have heart enough to be truly in love without encouragement."

Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

Christine drew a deep breath and opened the door to her dressing room. It had now been over a month since she had been inside the Opera House, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to return. There were too many memories hidden among the gilt decorations and cardboard sets, none of them particularly pleasant, and her still-ambivalent feelings towards Erik confused and frightened her - better surely to avoid the subject altogether. And so she had flung herself, heart and soul, back into her work as the fiancee of the Vicomte de Chagny, a role she was somewhat surprised to find she enjoyed. But she had been quite certain that she wished to continue her singing as soon as possible - and equally sure that the Opera Populaire was the place she wanted to do it. Raoul had been surprised and perhaps even a little hurt, but he had listened, and finally capitulated to her irrational desire - but now she wasn't quite sure that she hadn't made the wrong decision.

Steeling herself, she entered the room and looked around. It looked exactly as she had left it, the table covered with her bits and pieces, nothing changed, everything dusted and clean.

She jumped violently at a timid little knock on the door. "Come in!" she called, trying to still her heartbeat.

Meg Giry poked her head round the door, then came bouncing in all the way, her face lighting up.

"Christine!"

They met in a spontaneous embrace, and Meg squealed in excitement. "Oh, they were right - I can't believe you're back!" 

She checked herself suddenly "Back to stay?"

Christine smiled and nodded, and Meg squealed again. "Oh, this is wonderful! I've missed you so much! And I have so much to tell you!" She flung herself down onto the divan at Christine's feet, and with a brief inward smile at her friend's exuberance, Christine joined her, picking up a hairbrush to try and render her appearance halfway presentable before her first official meeting with the managers.

"Tell me all about the new cast members," she requested, running the brush through her hair.

"Well ..." Meg appeared to consider deeply. "There's the new head tenor, Christophe Randell ... he's _very_ handsome, and so charming!" She giggled. "Just what we need, now that you've stolen Raoul from us!"

Christine laughed softly and reached down to stroke her little friend's hair. "Oh, Meg," she murmured. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too! Everything's so depressing without you and Raoul here ... nothing ever happens! But ..." she giggled again and took Christine's hand, "you heard Carlotta left? Well ... that leaves the post of prima donna open ... and who better to take it than you?"

Christine laughed. "I'm still under contract, Meg - I'll do whatever I'm told. Who knows, perhaps some other Spanish beauty with the voice of an angel has come to Paris in my absence and will be taking over where La Carlotta left off!"

Meg raised her eyebrows. "It's possible ..."

The girls giggled again, then Meg rose and began to brush Christine's hair. "However ... if we don't get to rehearsal soon, neither of us may have a job left at all. Do you want me to plait it for you?"

Christine nodded her thanks and swallowed over a sudden nervous lump in her throat. This was the moment she'd been dreading, the moment she would have to face the staring eyes, the inevitable questions - _what exactly had happened down there, and how was dear Monsieur le Vicomte after his terrible ordeal ..._?

She felt Meg take her hand. "Come on, Christine," murmured Meg. "You have to face them sometime. I'll be with you, you know."

Christine drew a deep breath and stood up. "Meg ..." she said suddenly. "They don't all think that I ..."

Meg looked at her for a moment, uncomprehending, before the penny dropped. "Oh, no, Christine, of course they don't!"

"Because I didn't ..."

Meg shook her head. "I _know_ you didn't, Christine."

The two girls stood staring at each other for a moment, then Christine impulsively threw her arms around Meg. "Thank you, Meg ..." she whispered into her friend's hair.

The moment Christine set foot on the stage, all rehearsal halted, and she was immediately set upon by crowds of ballet girls, pulled into the smothering weight of their curiosity, surrounding her in a cloud of frothy skirts and scent.

"Was it awful?" 

"Oh, Christine, we've all been so worried!"

"Is the Vicomte all right?"

"What actually happened?"

"Yes ... I mean, you didn't ... you know ...!"

The ballet girls all giggled with delighted horror. Meg took protective hold of Christine's arm.

"Of course she didn't!" she said stoutly, the fierce loyalty in her face defying any of her fellow dancers to contradict her. "Christine would _never_ ..."

"Why don't you let her tell it herself?"

The ballet girls parted with a gasp to reveal a taller dancer with a slender waist and long glossy blonde hair hanging loose down her back.

"You'd better fasten your hair up before my mother sees you, Cosette," Meg warned anxiously. "You know she ..."

"So, Christine?" Cosette inquired coolly, ignoring Meg's nervous attempts to take the spotlight off her friend. "Were your relations with the Opera Ghost ever ..." she paused briefly, "... as he would have wished them to be?"

Meg clutched Christine's arm more tightly. Christine had gone very white and looked ready to faint.

"Of course not," she said in a very low voice. "You know as well as anyone that I am engaged to be married to the Vicomte de Chagny."

Cosette laughed nastily and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "So? Will you ever see him again?"

Christine glanced around and found eyes watching her from every side; curious, anxious appraisal from ballet girls unsure as to whether they dared invite the ghost's angel back into their midst, stage hands who had put down their work and were now listening openly, the new head tenor who looked faintly surprised but amused, and - oh, God, Monsieur Andre, who had always been so kind to her, hovering in the wings, all waiting with ludicrous anxiety upon her reply.

Meg's fingers tightened around her arm, and Christine took a deep breath, aware that her entire future in the company depended upon the wording of her denial of any future intimacy with the man who had nearly single handedly destroyed the Opera's business.

"Of course not," she said again, feeling her grip on reality slip. "I ..." She felt Meg squeeze her arm, and she continued, improvising feverishly, "He's dead now, anyway ..." her voice trailing off as the guilt caught her unexpectedly and she was forced to blink back sudden tears.

Cosette studied her carefully for a moment. "Good riddance," she said coolly, flipping her hair back over her shoulders and turning as if to go. "Don't you think so, Christine?"

"Yes," whispered Christine, feeling faint. "Of course ..."

A faint moan reached her, causing Meg to flinch and glance nervously round the auditorium for a moment. Christine's eye was caught by a flicker of white in Box Five - but in the swirl of a black cloak, it was gone, and in the ensuing panic, Meg managed to hurry her out of the auditorium and to her dressing room before she fainted.

***

Erik stumbled into the lair, almost blinded with tears of pure anguish. His head throbbing, his legs barely supporting his weight, he crashed into the wall and slowly slid down it, surrendering himself completely to the black despair which was gradually enfolding him.

__

What did you expect? he told himself, furious at his own weakness._ What the hell were you expecting? You could have killed her and her lover, how else would you expect her to react to you this time around?_

He slumped into the corner, trying to force himself to think of something else; anything else. His music, the damage the mob had done which he still had yet to repair, the new head tenor ... _can't think, there's more and I can't remember ... _

Darkness was rushing in to him, and he reached desperately out to it, welcoming oblivion as it came, silent and gentle, the only place these days where respite was forthcoming.

***

Christine leant on her elbows on her dressing table, massaging her aching temples. She had passed her faint off as a result of the fact that she hadn't had time to eat before leaving the house, and although she could tell by the sceptical look in Meg's eyes that she hadn't fooled anybody, at least it had gained her a little time alone.

"Christine?"

__

Or perhaps not ...

Christine looked up to see Christophe Randell, the new head tenor, standing silhouetted against the light in the doorway.

"Hello," she said noncommittally.

"May I come in?" he asked. 

"Yes, of course," she replied, her mind searching vaguely for an excuse to refuse him entry. She failed to think of one, rose, and gestured towards the couch. He sat and looked around with curiosity.

"Nice room," he said at last.

She smiled slightly. "Yes ... very nice."

There was an awkward silence which Christine broke by holding out a necklace, a delicate silver chain with a teardrop diamond hanging from it.

"Could you ... could you help me put this on, Christophe?" she asked.

As soon as she said it, she knew she'd made a mistake. It had broken the silence for sure, but it had given the man an excuse to come closer to her, and she was getting the feeling that Christophe Randell was the sort of man she would prefer to keep a significant distance away from her.

"Of course," he said, rising and taking the necklace from her fingers. She turned and pulled her mass of dark curls back from her neck, feeling his breath on her back as he fastened the chain and trying not to flinch at his touch.

Suddenly, he slipped his arm around her waist and turned her around until she was facing him. She pulled away and took several hasty steps backwards to distance herself from him, her breath short and nervous.

"Come on, Christine," he said, breathing hard as he stepped towards her.

She backed off, fighting the urge to run. "Don't be absurd, Christophe," she said quickly, fighting to keep her voice level and realising too late that she had backed herself into a corner. "You know I'm engaged."

He leered at her. "I won't tell if you won't," he told her.

"No!" She took a step forward and tried to brush past him to leave the room, but he caught her arm, pulling her closer to him. She slapped him then, as hard as she could, her hand leaving a red mark down the side of his face with a small cut where her engagement ring, absurdly large, had scratched him.

For a moment he was still, his free hand reaching up to touch his face automatically, staring at her with utter disbelief. She shook his hand off her arm and turned to go, turning her back on him with contempt.

His hand landed on her arm again, harder this time, more restraining measure. She tried to pull away but winced as his fingers tightened around her arm, forcing her to take a step closer to him. 

"Oh, no you don't," he said quietly. "No one says no to me, Christine."

"Well, I am doing!" she snapped, jerking her arm from his grasp. "Take your hand off me!" He grabbed hold of her arm again, his fingers bruisingly tight, his other hand tangling in her hair, forcing her head back as he lowered his lips onto hers. She struggled, fighting to hit him with her free hand, twisting her face away from his, bringing her hand up blindly to rake at his face, hearing him curse as her nails scratched his cheek.

He threw her backwards, her head striking against the couch as she fell, leaving her slightly dazed and struggling to sit up, to back away. Christine touched her hand to her head, and stared at it uncomprehending as it came back stained red.

Then he was on top of her, forcing her head back, his lips over hers, swallowing her screams. She heard her dress rip, felt it fall away from her shoulder, his hands on her body ...

The door opened and the room was flooded with light. Christine curled into a ball, cowering against the wall as Christophe turned to face the tall shadow silhouetted in the doorway.

"Do you mind?" he said nastily. "We are rather busy in here."

Christine tried to call out, but her throat had dried and words seemed to have deserted her.

The figure in the doorway didn't move.

"Get away from her," it said very quietly, every word suffused with unspoken menace.

Christine fell back against the wall, her last reserves of strength sapped by the recognition of the voice, the realisation of who her rescuer was.

Christophe had also realised, a slight smile spreading over his features. "Ah ... at least I meet the famed Opera Ghost. Flesh and blood after all ..." He laughed softly. "Although perhaps not with regards our little Christine here, as I'm told. Too pure for her own good, wouldn't you agree?"

At this, the shadow in the doorway moved, faster than Christophe could ever have anticipated or even imagined, he crossed the room in less than a second, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor as he dragged Christophe to his feet and slammed him up against the wall in one fluid movement.

He spoke very softly and very clearly, every word a clear threat.

"If you ever," here he slammed the boy's head against the wall, "if you ever lay so much as a finger on her again ..." he left the sentence hanging, shooting the boy a look of pure hatred. Throwing the boy contemptuously to the floor, he turned to Christine, who was still sitting crumpled on the floor, looking, he thought, like a broken doll. She looked crushingly vulnerable and desperately fragile but at the same time, more beautiful than he'd ever known her. Her hair was in total disarray, a lock falling over her eyes. He resisted the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place.

Behind him, he could hear the boy scrambling for the door and smiled slightly at the speed which people found they possessed after an encounter with the Phantom of the Opera.

As if suddenly realising the state she was in, Christine pulled her torn blouse closer around her and tried to pinch the rip in her skirt together with her fingers. Erik slipped off his jacket and offered it to her. She shook her head weakly, but he insisted.

"You're shaking. Take it," he instructed.

She accepted the jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, drowning her in its folds as the sleeves fell down over her hands. He smiled faintly and offered her his hand. She took it and rose, staggering as her legs gave way beneath her. Erik caught her before she fell and helped her over to an overstuffed armchair into which she sank gratefully.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, his eyes skating quickly over her to make sure there was no actual physical damage apart from the bruise on her face.

She nodded wordlessly, and then began to shake as the tears came; long, shuddering sobs born of all the months of confusion. She put her hands to her face, uselessly trying to conceal her tears.

Feeling helpless, Erik fumbled in his waistcoat for a handkerchief. He found one and handed it to her; she took it gratefully and scrubbed it over her face, desperately trying to rein in her racing emotions and failing miserably.

As soon as she had enough control over herself to be sure she could speak connectedly, she choked out, "Erik ... I said ..."

Erik held up a hand to halt her, agony sweeping through him as he recalled exactly what she had said.

"Don't," he said, abandoning all efforts at composure. "I will send your friend Meg along shortly ... you won't see me again."

Sweeping his cloak around him, he left silently without a backwards glance.

Christine sank back in the chair, tears streaming down her face as she realised how he must have taken her words; as further rejection as opposed to the heartfelt apology she most decidedly owed him.

***

Erik sank down into a chair, his head spinning. He realised he was still shaking with a mixture of blind passions; the fury he had felt when he first opened the door was by no means diminished; for a moment there, he had been completely out of the control that he valued so highly. It had been the smirk on the boy's face as he mocked the Opera Ghost ... the infuriating arrogance while Christine still crumpled against the wall like a broken doll, her eyes wide with terror greater than he had ever inspired in her. That the boy should have dared to touch his Christine was bad enough, but that he should stand there and gloat ...

Erik took a deep breath to calm himself, and forced himself to stand up. _Where would a dancer be at this time of day?_ he wondered. His answer came in the form of excitable voices floating down the corridor; rehearsal had evidently just ended, and, unless he was very much mistaken, he could hear Meg Giry's voice among them. He stepped back into the shadows and waited as the girls passed in a cloud of scent, ruffled skirts and noisy chatter. Meg, fortunately for him, was right at the back, listening intently to some mindless anecdote one of the other girls was telling about one of the male chorus and an absent dancer. As Meg passed, he reached out and swept his cloak around her, spiriting her away before she had a chance to scream.

Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, he dragged her bodily through one of his secret passages into a small circular room where he released her and she staggered away from him, her expression one of blind terror.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off before she had a chance.

"Be quiet," he said firmly. "I don't want to hear it. Go to Christine's dressing room directly - don't let her leave for a while. Do you understand?"

Meg nodded, her eyes still wide with panic.

"Good girl," he said quietly. "And I don't want to hear any reports of this little encounter circulating round the corps de ballet, is that clear?"

Meg nodded again, and he released her with a brief gesture towards the door. As the light pattering of her feet faded away down the corridor, he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - New chapter! Hehe - nice short upload time here :) This chapter kind of sets the scene for the rest of the fic ... everything shall now be explained :P

Hope you enjoy! :)

"Richard, I really don't think this is a good idea."

Firmin looked up from his desk. His partner had been growing more and more agitated all morning, pacing with frenetic restlessness up and down the office, unable to settle to anything for more than a minute or two.

"My dear Gilles," he sighed, removing his spectacles and folding them neatly on the desk, "it doesn't appear we have a great deal of choice. If we don't strike now, we lose our best chance of catching him with his guard down."

Replacing his spectacles on his nose, he began to study his paperwork again, frowning at a miscellaneous column of figures which he had yet to identify. Really, Gilles was _hopeless_ with paperwork ...

He glanced up to remark dryly, "And I hardly need remind you that twenty thousand francs a month is a sum we simply cannot afford."

"But Mademoiselle Cosette ..."

"Is a highly competent young lady with an extremely shrewd mind. And, I might add, utterly without the naive fantasies of Mademoiselle Daaé." Sighing, he rose to face his partner. "Gilles ... if we can stop him now, we'll be free of him forever! And if Mlle. Cosette is the means to that end, then I consider her use not only practical but essential."

Andre threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Richard, these are _people,_ not pawns on a chessboard! What about Christine? Don't you think she deserves to know what we're thinking?"

"No!" Firmin's fist crashed down onto the table, shaking a framed photograph of his wife onto the floor with a resounding shatter of glass. Calming slightly, he retrieved the picture and kicked the shards of broken glass carelessly under the table. 

"No, Gilles. I remain unconvinced as to her loyalties as yet ..." he shook his head. "And putting the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny in further danger is simply more than our jobs are worth!"

"They're not married," muttered Andre sullenly. Resuming his nervous pacing, he turned back to face his partner. "What if Cosette only reminds the ghost of what he's lost? If she reminds him back into the belief that he and Christine are still the most eligible couple since Romeo and Juliet? How you can knowingly conceal this from her I'll never know. And as for Cosette! If you trust her even one inch, you're a braver man than I ... women that shrewd are dangerous, Richard, they sell their souls to the highest bidder!"

"And you think our so-called ghost is in any fit state of mind to put in a rational bid for her? A beautiful woman with no small talent making herself available so soon after another has rejected him ... come, Gilles, you know how easy it is to fall in love on the rebound!"

A brief moment of silence.

"That is not the point," Andre said quietly. I don't trust her, and I don't want Christine exposed to any further danger."

Firmin snorted impatiently. "That woman's danger was entirely of her own making! Angel of music ... adolescent nonsense!" He gave another derisive snort. "And if she'd followed our orders on that last night, none of this fiasco would ever have happened!" He sighed and lowered his voice. "I know you're fond of her, Gilles, but the woman's a liability, she really is."

Andre turned back to him. "Yes, I am fond of her," he said with quiet, restrained anger. "I wouldn't claim to have the same sort of feelings for her that the Vicomte does, or even the ghost! But she's a nice, well-meaning child who deserves better than she's been experiencing here for the past year!" He sighed, sitting down and resting his head on his hand. "She means no harm, Richard, and this situation is not her fault. Set your trap for the ghost will Mademoiselle Cosette as your bait if you must. But I warn you, Richard, if anyone else is injured by this lunatic scheme, it won't be just the ghost who leaves the Opera."

He stood up slowly and left the room, closing the door very quietly behind him.

Firmin sighed with mild irritation. Gilles Andre was a good man, and certainly useful to have on board with regards to casting and the artistic side of the business, but his damned emotional concern for people, and his utter lack of ruthlessness made him a very difficult man indeed to put business propositions to. And his attachment to Christine Daaé bordered on the ridiculous! Firmin believed his partner when he said he was not in love with her, and that his intentions were purely platonic, but any sort of emotional attachment to one's business acquaintances was dangerous and highly unnecessary. After all, did it really _matter_ if Christine Daaé disappeared for a few days and then returned unwilling to elaborate on her absence, just as long as she didn't start missing performances and her voice remained as strong as ever? Her life was her own concern - let Gilles focus on the business, and leave her to manage her various admirers as best she could.

He set down his pen at a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

The door opened, and Cosette Graham entered. He was amused to see that she was carrying an attaché case of the sort used by businessmen and lawyers the world over - a most competent and unusual woman, this one.

"My apologies for my lateness," she said crisply. "Rehearsal overran." She glanced around the office. "I fear I may have come at an inopportune time - perhaps you would prefer me to return at a time when Monsieur Andre is also available to discuss our little business?"

Firmin shook his head, shuffling through a sheaf of papers.

"No, my dear ... I fear my friend does not approve of this little enterprise - he is something of a romantic at heart, you know. The exact details are to be discussed between only ourselves." He glanced at her briefly over the tops of his spectacles. "I am assuming that this will remain between ourselves, of course - secret enterprises such as this rarely remain secret for long if revealed to an entire corps de ballet, in my experience."

Cosette shook back her hair, her expression cold.

"If I may say so without giving offence, Monsieur, this enterprise is doomed to failure before it has even begun if neither you nor your partner find yourselves able to have faith in my judgement and my discretion. You may rest assured that whatever should transpire in this office will not leave these four walls."

Firmin nodded, wondering briefly how a woman could be so shrewdly businesslike and breathtakingly efficient and yet retain such a feminine exterior; she was one of those rare woman, he thought, who would have made a highly successful man.

"Very well," she said coldly. "My terms are as follows. I am willing to consider small concessions to them to increase your convenience, but you will find me for the most part, implacable as to the details." She paused briefly, then rose and began to pace the room, ticking off points on her fingers.

"I will not be spied upon; you must respect my ability to complete this task, and any attempt to have me followed will be detected - have no doubt of that - and will result in my entire and immediate withdrawal from the programme with no opportunity for explanations or excuses on your part. I am prepared to put in as much time as seems necessary, seven days a week, although I shall expect time and a half should my services be required on a Sunday - but if this work should result in an adverse effect on my position in the corps de ballet, I expect you or Monsieur Andre to make my excuses for me - I am being employed by the Opera House, and will answer only to you. I require no protection, and will accept none - my gender is nothing more than an accident of birth, and holds no bearing whatsoever on my ability to perform this task." She paused and looked at him to check he was taking it all in. "While I am perfectly happy to be privately involved in this little charade, I do not wish my involvement made public, and I do not intend to be present at the kill. I am prepared for the fact that this may turn out to be a long-term commitment, and I have here a contract signed by myself which binds me to the Opera House until the work is completed, or until you see fit to remove my from my position." She drew the document from her case and dropped it on the table, continuing as Firmin picked it up to glance over it. "As regards payment, it is my understanding that my fee is to be a daily sum plus a substantial bonus should this endeavour end successfully." She paused. "You are of course free to terminate my contract if and when you see fit. We will meet once a week to discuss any progress made, and more regularly should either of us deem it necessary."

She stopped in front of his desk. "Any questions?"

"Nobody would imagine that I was your employer," Firmin commented dryly. "No, my dear, that all seems quite comprehensive." He tapped the contract with his spectacles. "I will look over this tonight and return it to you in the morning."

Cosette nodded curtly, closing her case and tossing her hair back over her shoulder. 

"Very well," she said. "In that case, we meet again tomorrow. If there's nothing else ..." Firmin shook his head, resuming his seat at the desk.

"Oh, and just as a point for future reference," she said, opening the door. "I'm not your dear." The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Firmin staring at it in disbelief.

__

She really would have made an excellent man ...

***

Christine stood in front of the sink, scrubbing frantically at her skin in an attempt to remove the taint Christophe Randell's touch had left on her. She looked at herself in the mirror - her face was white and her eyes were circled with dark shadows. She looked quite insane, really, she noticed detachedly, scrubbing at her skin almost hard enough to make it bleed ...

A soft knock on the door made her jump, her heartbeat doubling as she flattened herself against the wall.

Meg Giry's small blonde head poked round the door, the fear in her face rapidly dissolving into concern as she caught sight of her friend. 

"Christine!"

She took a hesitant step into the room, halting in her tracks as she noticed Christine's torn dress and the finely-woven gentleman's dress jacket crumpled on the floor.

"Christine ..." she murmured in confusion.

Christine rushed forwards and collapsed into her friend's arms with a sob. The girls sank to the floor, Meg wrapping her arms around Christine in an attempt to calm her down, flinching as she noticed the painful bruising raw on her friend's shoulder.

"Christine, what _happened?_"

Christine began to sob her way through her explanation, Meg's face creasing in disbelief and horror. Christine suddenly clutched hold of her arm. 

"Don't tell Raoul," she begged. "Please, Meg, he mustn't know!"

Meg shook her head, holding her closer and stroking her hair back.

"Not if you don't want me to," she promised.

"Christine ..." she began hesitantly. "How did ..." she cleared her throat. "How did the ghost know?"

"Christine looked blankly at her.

"He came to find me," Meg explained. She laughed a little. "He scared the fear of God out of me!"

Christine giggled through her tears. "Yes, he does that," she whispered.

"He told me to come and find you and keep you here for a while ... but Christine, how did he know what was going on?"

Christine took a deep, shuddering breath.

"There are trick acoustics down there," she began slowly. "In some parts of his house you can hear what's happening upstairs.

Meg jumped, looking terrified. "You mean he could be listening to us now?!"

Christine laughed in spite of herself. "No, Meg, I don't think so. He probably heard me scream ..." She shuddered involuntarily. "God alone knows what would have happened if he hadn't!"

"Don't think about it," ordered Meg, pulling her close again. There was silence for a while, before Meg drew away from Christine and looked her in the eyes.

"Christine ... Monsieur Randell can't possibly stay now ... someone's going to have to tell Monsieur Andre what's happened."

"No!" Christine cried. "Meg, they'll tell Raoul, I _can't!_"

Before Meg had a chance to reply, there came a sharp rap on the door, causing both girls to cower back in sudden terror, clinging onto each other for support.

The door opened, and a shaft of light fell over them, silhouetting a tall figure in the doorway.

"Stand up, girls."

Both Christine and Meg went limp with relief, rising slowly to their feet, Christine suddenly very conscious or her mussed hair and torn dress.

"Meg, go and wash your face."

Meg made as if to protest, but a sharp glance from her mother effectively silenced her; squeezing Christine's hand, she disappeared down the corridor, the sounds of her shoes echoing off the walls.

Madame Giry moved a little further into the room, eyeing Christine carefully.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently.

Christine nodded. "Have you ..."

"Spoken to ... him? Yes, I have." She paused. "I've also been to see Monsieur Andre - Monsieur Randell will not be returning."

Christine's eyes went wide with panic. "I don't want Raoul to know!"

"He won't," Madame Giry said coolly. "Your name wasn't mentioned - I merely said that there had been an incident and that if Monsieur Randell was not replaced, there was a very good chance that the Opera Ghost would be returning to his old habits."

Christine sank into a chair. "He wouldn't ..." she said weakly.

"What? Kill to protect you?" Madame Giry sighed. "Christine, he loves you. More than I think you know."

"I'm getting _married_," whispered Christine faintly.

"He knows that," Madame Giry said quietly. "It doesn't stop him loving you."

Christine looked up and met the older woman's eyes, deep with inexpressible sadness.

"What can I do?" she whispered. "What can I do that won't destroy one of them?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "It's a matter for your own conscience, my dear," she said softly. "Just remember that there are people who love you. Don't let them down."

Her air changed, becoming businesslike. "I've contacted Raoul," she said matter-of-factly. "He thinks you've had a fainting fit, and he's coming to take you home as soon as he can. She paused, glancing at Christine. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," murmured Christine. 

Madame Giry subjected her to a further moment's scrutiny which told Christine she didn't believe her in the slightest, then handed her a dress.

"Here," she said. "It's Meg's ... it ought to fit you well enough."

Christine took the dress gratefully, her fingers automatically seeking out the bruise on her shoulder.

"Get dressed," Madame Giry said gently. "I'll let you know when he gets here."

"Thank you ..." murmured Christine, staring down at the dress. "On second thoughts ..." she said suddenly, glancing up. "Will you tell him I'm making my own way home? There's something I have to do."

Her eyes met the ballet mistress', and for a moment, she was convinced that Madame Giry knew exactly what she was thinking - but then the older woman turned away and the moment was lost.

"Of course," said Madame Giry with a brief smile. "Of course ..."

She left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

***

Erik bent slowly and picked up the wedding veil. A sudden wave of dizziness swept over him, and he sat down rapidly, the strange tightness back in his chest.

__

Yes, he thought with insanely desperate longing. _Another attack, now ... end it once and for all ..._

He lifted the veil to his face, breathing in the faint perfume it still held. He bit his lip until the blood flowed, the crushing silence bearing down on him, the unbearable sensation of heartbroken loneliness becoming almost overwhelming ...

He sank to the floor, his face in his hands.

__

Being without her was like being without oxygen ...

Far in the distance, he could hear a bell ringing ... he drew his legs up close to his body, and closed his eyes. He could still see her face, smell her perfume ... hear her voice ... He closed his eyes over tears and tried to recall her smile.

"Erik?"

He froze, his entire body going rigid. His lips formed her name, but no sound came out.

"_Christine?_"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - I'm glad you all liked Andre's little cameo!! I've always thought there was some nice potential for him as a serious father figure to Christine - unfortunately, that means making Firmin the bad guy. Sorry :S (Are there any Firmin fans out there?!) 

Anyway ... this is a nice little E/C chapter in which things are said ... and they make up, which is always good!!

Hope you enjoy!

Christine sighed, distractedly raking her fingers back through her hair. Her resolve to talk to Erik was rapidly failing her at the sight of his house - in utter darkness, courtesy of the shattered gas lamps and broken candles, smashed furniture and sheets of torn music littering the floor - what on earth had make her think that the mob would have left his home undamaged, simply because she and Raoul had reappeared unharmed?

More worrying, however, was the utter absence of any evidence that Erik had even returned to his house since his disappearance. 

__

But he had to have come back ... he was in the Opera earlier today ... where else could he have gone?

She turned, taking in the absolute destruction a moment longer, before picking up her lantern and turning to make her way out of the lair with a heavy heart at the knowledge that she had, yet again, failed him.

***

Cosette wandered idly along the passageway, kicking absently at the wall. She was bored. Until Christine decided to reappear, she had no idea where she might even begin her hunt for the ghost, and even the handsome head tenor seemed to have disappeared off somewhere, leaving the only available company silly, empty-headed ballet dancers, who feared her almost as much as she despised them.

She stopped suddenly, her eyes taking in a young man with blonde hair and a faintly worried expression on his face standing at the end of the corridor. He hadn't noticed her, glancing around as if looking for someone, but her appraising eye ran him up and down and approved of what she saw. He was certainly attractive ... he might just prove to be an interesting diversion.

"Monsieur," she purred, sauntering up to him. "Do you have the time?"

He took out a pocket watch and flipped it open.

"It's just gone two o'clock," he said, sounding a little distracted. "I don't suppose you've seen Christine Daaé anywhere, have you?"

Cosette rolled her eyes inwardly. Another man chasing after Christine Daaé! And hopelessly in love with her, by all appearances. She was rapidly losing interest in him; from what she had seen of Christine, she was a colourless little mouse with a superb voice but no spirit to call her own; any man who could fall for that wilting flower act was clearly either hopelessly immature or just blindingly stupid.

"No, Monsieur," she said, trying to smother her irritation. In a moment of spite, she added, "You do know she's engaged, don't you?"

The man turned to look at her, still looking a little troubled. "Yes, I do," he said. "I'm her fiancé."

Cosette's first reaction was to swear. _Of all the people to encounter on her first day ...!_ But as her natural cool logic and intellect took over, she glanced him over with a freshly appraising eye. He was certainly handsome ... and he clearly didn't deserve Christine ... he might just be the one perk of what looked otherwise to be shaping up as a truly awful job.

The man glanced away from her, scanning the hallways as if he expected Christine to appear at any moment, then looked back at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

"You're a dancer," he said suddenly. Cosette rolled her eyes inwardly again - this man was either seriously distracted by Christine's mysterious absence, or just remarkably stupid.

"Yes, Monsieur," she murmured, demurely dropping her eyes.

He nodded, and suddenly a complete change came over him. 

"I apologise," he said with disarmingly charming frankness. "Please forgive me. You must think me appallingly rude. My name is Raoul de Chagny - I'm Christine's fiancé and a patron here at the Opera."

"Cosette Graham," she murmured below lowered eyelashes.

"You must be new," he said with a smile. "Have you met Christine yet?"

"Only briefly, at rehearsal," Cosette said brightly, inwardly cursing the woman she had barely met and already disliked intensely. _Is he so utterly incapable of forming a sentence without the word "Christine" in it?_

His handsome face clouded briefly. "At rehearsal ... I don't suppose you know what happened, do you?" he asked. "I was told she'd fainted and was waiting for me to come and take her home, but I can't find her anywhere and nobody seems to know where she's gone!"

Cosette tossed her hair back with practised ease, opening her eyes wide in her best "concerned" expression.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Monsieur ..." she paused briefly before plunging in, watching him closely to exactly gauge his reaction. "There was a little talk of the Opera Ghost after she fainted ..." she gave a little laugh and flicked her hair again, "but being new, I don't believe I really understand the ins and outs of what really happened here regarding the ghost and ... Mademoiselle Daaé."

She watched his face crease with confusion and anxiety.

"Perhaps ..." she suggested carefully, "perhaps we could go and wait for Christine in her dressing room ... and you could tell me a little of the legend behind the ghost while we wait?"

Raoul shook his head. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle ... I think I'll go and take a final look around for her, and if I can't find her, I'll see if she's made her own way home."

He lifted her hand to his lips in an automatic gesture of parting and strode off down the corridor towards the auditorium.

Cosette frowned, unreasonably disappointed at her failure. He was young, naive, idealistic, and hopelessly in love with a seemingly unfeeling young lady - just the type she usually excelled at controlling. Evidently he had a little more spirit than she had given him credit for ...

Cosette smiled and locked herself into her dressing room, sitting down to study her face in the mirror. Her reflection smiled a cold little smile at her as she began automatically to brush her hair.

Yes, Raoul de Chagny would be a very interesting nut to crack ...

He was just like all the others. So why did she suddenly have the feeling that it would almost be a pity to break his heart?

***

Christine turned to go, then whirled around, her heart suddenly beating fast with a mixture of hope and anticipation. What was that noise?

She retraced her steps back into the living room, and looked around. She wondered suddenly, as the fine down on her neck prickled, if he watched her from some hidden inner sanctum.

"Erik?" she said again, her voice sounding loud in the silence of the abandoned house.

She took a few steps towards the door of her bedroom and paused, her hand hovering above the door knob, suddenly unsure.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Erik was sitting huddled in a corner, his legs drawn up under his chin and his eyes tightly closed. He was shaking all over, his fingers twisting compulsively in the dark material of his jacket sleeves.

"_Erik?_" she whispered, taking a tentative step forward into the room. 

His hands closed around his arms, his fingers clenching convulsively as if to retain some contact with something solid. She thought she heard him breathe her name, his voice breaking, and he buried his face in his knees, tears spilling out from behind the mask.

"Erik!" She knelt beside him, catching hold of his arm, and he started with a violence that almost knocked her over, his hands rising automatically in self-defence as he jerked away from her.

"What's _wrong?_" she whispered, reaching out to him.

He rose instantly, turning away from her with a brief, angry movement of his hand over his face, a gesture which betrayed more anguished emotion than he had intended.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, rising to her feet and making her way over to him. "Didn't you hear me calling?"

He stared at her for a moment, utterly lost for words. What could he say? _I haven't been able to shut your voice out of my head for even one moment in the last month - in the end, even the most painful of hope eventually dies?_

Ignoring her question, he looked her up and down, careful to avoid making eye contact, fearing the sudden wild hope and painful stabs of love for her might betray themselves in his eyes. 

"You shouldn't be here," he said tensely. "I told Madame Giry to contact ..."

He broke off, feeling the agonisingly familiar sick wave of intense jealousy sweep over him. "You ought to be resting," he amended finally.

She shook her head, playing with a lock of her hair as nervous displacement activity.

"No, I'm fine," she said softly. "Nothing actually happened ... thanks to you ..." She took a step towards him. "Erik ..."

She paused, brushing her hair back out of her face.

"In the auditorium ..."

He turned away, utter misery filling him. He had been trying to forget - _God, anything to forget - _but her voice echoed on in his head; crystalline, pure - unbearably painful.

"Erik, please! What else could I have said?"

He turned slowly back to her.

"What are you saying?"

He heard her sigh, felt her hand descend on his arm, felt himself freeze at the unexpected contact, his mind going numb.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I was put on the spot - what would you have had me do? Risk my place in the company by telling the truth?"

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, hers beseeching, desperate, wide with sincerity. Suddenly acutely aware of her proximity, her hand still on his arm, the soft scent of her perfume, he turned hastily and took two steps backwards. _Why did she **still** have this effect on him ...?_

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly, turning his back on her and fighting to keep his voice even. "Whether you meant it or not, everything you said was true ..." He bit down on his lip until blood flowed, his hand passing automatically over the mask.

"No!" She caught hold of his shoulders, forcing him to face her. "You _know_ I don't think that! I could _never_ ..." She released him, turning away from him and pulling a hand back through her hair.

"Why can't you ever believe me?" she whispered, half to herself.

Erik stared at her for a long moment, torn between heartbroken self-doubt and an overwhelming desire to trust her, to give her anything and everything she wanted, to stroke her hair and hold her close and never let her go - _oh, God, I love her ..._

Crossing the distance between them with one step, he caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. One glimpse of her eyes and he was lost, and when she suddenly flung herself forward into his arms and hid her face in his chest, and they sank to the floor with a sudden mutual weakness, he buried his face in the soft perfume of her hair and clung onto her as if to life itself.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - Thank you to all my reviewers! I love you all - you really brighten my day :) (Christine Persephone - I hope you did OK on your Physics quiz! Your teacher sounds nicer than mine was!! :) )

Anyway - I hope you might all have a little more sympathy with Cosette after this chapter! (and no, in response to a few people who've asked me this - this is _not_ going to be an OW story. Definitely not.)

Disclaimer: The quote from Robert Leicester to Elizabeth is taken from Legacy by Susan Kay (not quite as good as Phantom, but a very good book all the same :) )

"Cosette!"

Cosette turned around and smiled with genuine pleasure when she saw Raoul approaching. They had been talking a lot over the last few days, and she was discovering, with mild surprise, that the more she learned of him, the more she liked him. He was just such a truly nice young man - hopelessly honest and genuine, and utterly incapable of saying a bad word about anyone - the perfect little gentleman. The only trouble was, the more she grew to like him, the more she grew to dislike Christine - she was so innocent, and good, and friendly ... so utterly damned inoffensive! The girl really did seem to be lacking in shrewdness, cunning, or any of the other qualities Cosette admired in others of her sex - she was just so nice ... and so utterly boring!

"Raoul," she greeted him with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise."

He laughed. "The pleasure is all mine, my dear. Now ..." his voice turned mock serious, with just a hint of amusement, "there was a very confused and worried little messenger boy waiting out in the foyer, trying locate a 'Mademoiselle Cosette Graham', and most distressed that said mademoiselle seemed to be absent."

Cosette frowned. "A messenger? For me?" She couldn't think of anyone who might know where she was. Or anyone who would care enough to attempt to find out where she was ...

"I suppose I should go and relieve his distress, then," she said with a slightly confused smile.

"Unnecessary," Raoul said cheerfully, producing a bouquet of roses from behind his back. "I took the liberty of assuring him they would reach their destination."

"Oh, Raoul, how sweet of you!" Cosette said, once again marvelling at a man who would think to do something so utterly selfless. She took the bouquet, searching for a card. She found it, tucked away in the roses, and slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope to withdraw the letter within.

Raoul stared at Cosette. She had gone very white, staring at the letter as though it contained her death warrant, and for a moment he was sure she was going to faint. He reached out to steady her, and she shied away from his touch with a sudden feral terror.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, raising one hand to her trembling lips. She passed a hand over her hair, her whole body shaking, and managed to whisper, "Thank you for delivering this," before she turned and fled.

Cosette rushed down the corridor in a panic, her fingers fumbling at the knob of her dressing room to allow her entry into its cool darkness. She locked the door with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking and sank to the floor, her head spinning and her limbs suddenly weak. 

__

Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God ...

The letter had fallen to the floor, and the words stood out boldly against the white paper, mocking her facade of strength.

**__**

"Cosette, darling, I'm in Paris this week, and - with your permission, of course - I would love to come and see you. My love, this has gone on for far too long - the Bible teaches forgiveness above all else, doesn't it?

All my love,

Tom."

She buried her head in her knees, shaking all over, fighting a desire to scream or cry or break something expensive.

__

Tom Chandler! 

Tom Chandler had been her first love - back in the days when she had been an innocent little church girl with blithe expectations of life and love as they were in the asinine storybooks she had read, back in the days when every day was sunny and everyone she knew a friend. They had met in their village church, where she was a member of the choir. He came every week, and sat in the front pew, smiling at her until she thought her heart would burst with joy.

Everyone had said it would never last - when he went away to university, she felt as though she were dying - but he came back, every holiday, and as many weekends as he could - he would come back, and everything would be as it had always been for a day or two, before he had to go away again. People who had sneered at the idea of such adolescent puppy love lasting now began to smile at them in the street and say what a wonderful thing young love was ...

The church choir were drawing lots for who should sing the solo at their wedding.

Until that day. That terrible, awful, summer's day, such a beautiful day she just had to share it with him - she had arrived at the university, and found out his room number - and there they had been. On the bed ... 

Cosette closed her eyes as the sledgehammer of pain hit her, undiminished by the passing of five years, as all the anguished disbelief of that one disastrous day in the middle of July when her world had been shattered forever came flooding back to her. She could remember the way her voice had sounded, no more than an anguished whisper; "_Tom?_" the way he had leapt up, covering his modesty with the sheet, leaving the girl lying naked on the bed ... her scream ...

__

No!

Cosette forced herself to sit up, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. _No_ ... she would _not_ allow Tom Chandler to come back into her life and sap away the walls of strength and resolve she had so carefully constructed around her broken heart throughout the last five years - she _didn't_ need him! _She didn't need any of them._

Cosette set her jaw and slowly, methodically, began to tear the paper to shreds, dropping the pieces into the flickering fire. Tom had done her a favour, really, sending the flowers - he had reminded her that men could not be trusted. Raoul was just the same as any of them - the only way to deal with them was to use them as best you could and hurt them before they could hurt you.

Cosette threw the roses into the fire and watched them burn.

Raoul hesitated outside the door. It was the first time Cosette had ever let down her glamorous, icily beautiful facade to reveal anything even resembling true emotion underneath, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with the revelation that she was a real person after all under all the glossy hair and brilliant smiles. Of course, he had known that she couldn't be quite as self-possessed and perfectly contained as she always appeared to be - but it still came as a shock that she should lose her control so badly.

He tapped lightly on the door.

"Cosette?" he called softly. "Are you all right?"

The door opened, and Cosette emerged, flashing him a familiarly brilliant smile. She was perhaps a little pale, but her smile was as wide as ever as she beamed at him.

"Why, Raoul! What a pleasant surprise!"

He was slightly taken aback - from his experiences of Christine, women refused to come out of their dressing rooms when they were upset, or at least looked a little unhappy when you finally dragged them out. And yet Cosette looked as bright as ever ... she really was a most extraordinary woman.

"Are you all right?" he said gently. "The roses ..."

For a moment, Cosette's face remained rigid, before her expression melted into one of her truly beautiful smiles.

"Why, of course ... just a little news that took me unawares. But Raoul," she took his arm and began to steer him down the corridor, "where on earth has Christine vanished off to? She's disappeared off the face of the planet, and I simply can't imagine where she might have gone!"

***

Christine closed her eyes and clenched her fist in a fold of her dress, cursing the feeling of coming home that accompanied her whenever she re-entered the lair.

She felt Erik's arms loosen suddenly around her, felt him withdraw into himself as his habitual reserve rose as a wall between them. He stood up and retreated over to the organ, his fingers briefly caressing the keys as he glanced tentatively over at her and then hastily looked away, closing his fingers around one of the upright carved supports. She stood up slowly, brushing off her skirt, noticing with faint surprise the dust on the hem ... evidently Erik hadn't kept to his usual standards of cleanliness since she had left.

"Are you ... all right?" she ventured, taking a tentative step towards him.

"Of course." His voice sounded strangely distant and remote, and she hesitated.

"Why ..." she paused and then continued quickly, "why were you crying?"

He turned to look at her for a moment, then turned away again. "It's not important," he said quietly, resting one hand on the top of the organ. He sighed and turned to look at her.

"Christine ... why are you here?"

__

Because I love you. The answer was on the tip of her tongue - it was such a natural response.

"Because ..." she shook her head, momentarily lost for words. "Because I never thanked you for what you did this afternoon. If you hadn't come when you did ..."

"Don't." His voice came out harsh, tense, almost afraid. He couldn't think of it and stay sane - his flower, his angel, taken against her will - he shuddered inwardly, his fingers clenching around one of the organ uprights for support. He glanced at her and his love for her threatened to overwhelm him - she was such a child, such a complete innocent ... so utterly pure. His love would ruin her, steal her simplicity from her, take away the purity in her which he loved so deeply ... a tear escaped from behind the mask and he turned hastily away from her to wipe it away.

"Nothing did happen," he said quietly, "and if I hadn't come, somebody else would have done." He looked back at her, engraving every line of her profile on his memory. He turned away, his resolve crumbling - _God, would he **ever** be able to stop loving her ..._

"Erik ..." her voice confused, concerned, a little hurt. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He laughed softly, the sound utterly devoid of humour. "Yes, my dear, I'm fine ... a little tired, I suppose."

He sighed briefly, glancing at her once more and feeling his self-control dissolve into a sea of helpless emotion. He took a trembling step towards her. 

"Christine ..."

"Yes?" Her voice eager, hopeful, nervous.

"Oh, God ..." He took another step towards her, unable to restrain himself, and swept her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, feeling her hands ball into fists on his back.

He closed his eyes, treasuring the warm scent of her hair a moment longer before he pulled away from her, his heart wrenching at the knowledge of what he was losing.

"You should go," he said over a sudden lump in his throat. "It's not right that you should be here."

Christine sighed, unreasonably disappointed. He must still be angry with her about their last night ...

"Erik, please ..." She took a step towards him, touching him lightly through his jacket. "Please don't be angry with me."

Erik turned to face her. "Angry with you?" he echoed. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. "Why would I be angry with you?"

She shook her head, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I don't know," she murmured, turning away from him and running her fingers along a bookshelf. "You were ... that last night."

Erik closed his eyes, blocking the inevitable memories of that night.

"I wasn't angry," he said, very softly. "Not with you, at any rate."

"It wasn't Raoul's fault," she whispered. "None of it ..."

Erik shook his head. "I know."

There was a brief pause.

"Are you going to marry him?"

Christine looked up sharply, but Erik had turned away from her and was standing very still with his back to her by the bookshelves. She closed her eyes over tears and the achingly familiar pang of guilt.

"Yes," she whispered, feeling faint.

There was a very long silence before Erik finally turned and moved slowly over to the organ.

"I'm very happy for you, my dear," he said very quietly, his fingers passing soundlessly over the keys. "But it does make your presence here even more inappropriate. Do you need me to show you the way out or can you find your own way?"

Christine looked hopelessly at him, his fingers now still on the keys of the organ. He wasn't looking at her, his face carefully devoid of emotion. _She couldn't do without him,_ she realised suddenly. The thought of her life without him was just too painful; he had rebuilt her life and her heart at a time when she had been sure she would never smile again, and now even a day without his presence, his strength, his love behind her was unimaginable. Teacher, angel, maestro, friend - Erik's unending support was something she just could not begin to contemplate losing.

"What are you saying?" she asked slowly. "That we should just ... never see each other again?"

Erik stood very still, touching his fingertips very lightly to the spine of a book.

"Can you see any other real alternative, my dear?"

"What ... what if we were to take up our lessons again?" Christine clapped her hand over her mouth in horror, unable to believe she had dared to say it. Much as she wanted their lessons to resume - if nothing else, for purely professional reasons, none of the other teachers she had met had seemed even half as passionate about their music as Erik had - she had never dreamed of making such a brazen suggestion when Erik had so clearly not recovered from their last encounter.

Erik had turned sharply back to her, his eyes wary. 

"Are you serious?"

"I ... well ..." Christine floundered. "Yes," she said finally. "I ..." 

She looked up at Erik, and his eyes watching her gave her the courage she needed. "I've missed you," she said sincerely.

She thought she saw him smile tentatively beneath the mask.

"Very well," he said softly, turning away from her. "In that case, I'll see you tomorrow ..." he turned back to her and hesitantly offered her his hand. "Come on ... I'll take you back."

Erik lingered on the far bank of the lake for a long time after she was gone, trying to hold every moment of her visit in his mind for as long as possible. After even the faintest traces of her perfume drifted away over the cold stillness of the lake, he finally returned to the house, feeling, for the first time in many months, almost at peace with himself. 

She had forgiven him.

Erik looked around the empty house, suddenly somewhat at a loss. Twelve hours ... twelve hours until he would see her again. 

He shook his head and sank into an armchair, suddenly trembling at the memory of how close he had been to her. He had touched her hand ...

Erik closed his eyes and tried to stop his hands from shaking. She was a virus in his blood; no matter how hard he tried, he would never free himself from her unconscious, utterly innocently woven spell.

He suddenly remembered something Robert Leicester had once said to Elizabeth the First. "If I could find a doctor to cure me of my love for you, believe me, madam, I would make him a wealthy man!"

A wise man, Robert Leicester ...


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Oops. Forgot to credit this in the last chapter. Tom Chandler is a name I was hoping someone might pick out as being a character from a British soap, but I guess most of you guys are in the US :) Chandler is a Superintendent in the police drama "The Bill" which personally I adore, and even though Chandler's a bit of a creep, I adore him too :)

__

Carmen is the opera used throughout the rest of the fic (inspired by a beautiful performance I recently saw in Prague) and that, its storyline and its characters, belong to Bizet. (And no, I don't know an awful lot about opera - if there's no way on earth Christine could sing Carmen, do let me know, and I'll change it :) But I figured, Carmen's not an alto, only a mezzo ... I'm rambling. Let me know :) )

A/N - I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but the combination of family problems, a ten day trip to Germany, and writer's block all conspired against me at the same time. Sorry!

T'eyla Minh - the Mme. Giry fic. Oh, dear. I've been asked this a million times, so I suppose it's best to announce it here. Basically, the short answer is ... no. I can't seem to get inspired to continue it - I do have some of the rest of it written, but at the moment I just can't get myself worked up to finish it - this and some other unfinished fics are commanding all my attention for the moment. It will be updated at some stage - but probably not in the near future. And Legacy - I got my copy off eBay. It's a good book if you like that sort of thing (personally, I adore Tudor history, so it's great for me) but it's not quite as good as Phantom. In my opinion :)

panther7x - Thanks for the advice :) Very much appreciated. Basically, the reason Erik's been being so nice is that everything that happened at the end of the musical completely emotionally destroyed him - and he's still apprehensive about being around Christine, he's desperate not to make the same mistakes again because he can't bear the thought of losing her. I will try to make him a bit more IC for the rest of the fic, though :)

Christine shifted in her seat to look around the room. It looked a lot better than it had done yesterday; Erik must have been up all night trying to make the place fit for habitation again.

Erik handed her a cup of tea.

"Thank you," she murmured. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and Christine reflected with brief misery that Erik seemed less at ease with her than he had ever been. All morning he had been quiet, courteous, and utterly withdrawn, impossible to talk to about anything that didn't pertain exactly to the Opera.

"Have you been watching the auditions?" she asked timidly in an effort to break the silence.

Erik looked up briefly then looked quickly away from her as if embarrassed.

"No," he said shortly. "Which opera are they doing?"

"_Carmen_."

He looked up at her in surprise. "With you as Micaela?"

She clasped her fingers together. "No ... they want me to have a try at Carmen."

Erik frowned. "She's too low for you."

Christine shook her head. "No ... we thought she might be, but Monsieur Reyer and I had a quick look at the score and we think I should be able to manage it, as long as we work on my lower register."

He glanced briefly over the score and closed it on the piano. "I'm not happy about this. Carmen won't show off your voice as your part ought to."

"Erik ... not every opera we put on has to be simply for the purpose of showcasing my voice," she said gently.

He turned away from her, picking up the score again. "A voice like yours ought to be displayed to its fullest advantage," he said coolly. "Giving you a role which was written for a mezzo-soprano is nothing short of insulting!"

Christine sighed. Erik always took every decision made regarding her and her voice so personally - perhaps Carmen was no Mimi or Aida. But it was a good part, and it would be interesting to play a heroine with a little spirit.

She remained silent, twisting her hands unconsciously in the folds of her skirt.

He turned back to her at last, and she was conscious of the depth of effort he called upon to pull himself together.

"Have you begun work on any of the music yet?"

Christine breathed again in relief, spreading the sheet music flat on the piano.

"No ... there haven't been any official rehearsals yet, so ..."

"All right." Erik turned away from her and began to leaf through the score. "Do you want to try your first entry?"

"_Havanaise?_"

He nodded and played a brief phrase on the piano, his lips moving silently as he reacquainted himself with the piece. "You know the music?"

Christine glanced over the sheet of music and nodded.

"All right." He picked up a sheet of music and set it on the piano, giving her a starting note. "Start from 'Love is a rebellious bird' and take it from there to the end of the next verse. I'll give you two bars introduction."

Christine took a deep breath as Erik played the introduction, barely seeming to glance at the score as the music came, as naturally and easily as water from a spring.

"Love is a rebellious bird

that nobody can tame, 

and it's useless to call him

if he doesn't feel like answering you!

Nothing is any use, threats or prayers,

one speaks sweet words, another is silent,

it is the other I prefer, 

he says nothing but I like him."

Erik nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Good. How does that feel?"

Christine hesitated. Erik smiled and nodded, searching for another sheet of music in one of the meticulously neat piles covering the piano.

"It will feel strange for a while, you're not used to singing a whole piece pitched quite that low. You'll get used to it." He paused, glancing up at her and looking quickly away, and she sensed that there was something else he wanted to say but couldn't quite gather the courage to.

He looked back at the piano. "All right," he said, all business once again, producing another sheet of music. "Let's try these."

Christine took the paper, glancing curiously over it. "This isn't Carmen," she said in surprise.

"It will help you get used to your lower register," Erik said absently, folding sheets of music and tidying them into piles. Christine, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight of her name heading one of the sheets. Erik stared at it for a moment, then, looking away, folded it and pushed it to the bottom of one of the piles.

Christine's curiosity was piqued.

"What's that, Erik?"

He didn't look up at her. "Nothing of importance," he said softly. He shook himself, and glanced up at her. "Do you want to try the _havanaise_ again?"

"All right," Christine agreed, slightly confused. She had known Erik wrote music for her, but this was the first time he had refused to allow her to see it. Usually his music was for her to sing ...

"Try the first verse again," he instructed, beginning the introduction. "Be careful of that first bar, it sets the tone for the rest of the piece."

Christine took a deep breath and began.

"Love is a rebellious bird 

that nobody can tame ..."

An alarm went off. Christine jumped and dropped her music, taking an instinctive step closer to Erik. He rose automatically, his eyes suddenly taking on a hunted look, every muscle in his body suddenly tensed wire-taut. Christine looked fearfully to him.

"Erik, what's ..."

"Shh." He took a step forward, his hand moving briefly in front of him, and the lights went out. Christine waited in silence for a moment, before - 

"I'm sorry, Erik, I didn't mean to set it off, I tripped over that damn cat ..."

She felt Erik relax, heard him laugh, and at a gesture from his hand, the lights came back on.

A man she recognised as the Persian who spent a lot of time at the Opera entered, stopping dead as he caught sight of Christine.

"Christine," he said quickly, his voice low and urgent, his eyes flickering from her to Erik. "Are you all right?"

Christine laughed nervously, confused. "Yes, thank you ... I'm fine ..."

She could feel Erik smile wryly behind her. "I think our lesson is just about concluded for today, don't you, my dear? Why don't you let yourself out, and I'll see you tomorrow."

Still confused, Christine nodded and, taking her cloak, left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once outside, she crouched down in the shadows to listen to their conversation.

The Persian's voice first, low, suspicious.

"What's going on, Erik?"

Erik's voice, guarded, deliberately calm.

"I should have thought that was moderately obvious, daroga. Even someone with as little musical training as you must recognise a singing lesson when they see it."

"Don't try and deflect me, Erik. What is going on?"

Christine heard Erik sigh and move across the room.

"It's really very simple, Nadir. Christine is an opera singer; she needs a good tutor. And while it is perhaps arrogant to describe myself as such, I happen to be the best person for the job." She heard him close the piano lid. "That's all."

"It's not quite all, though, is it, Erik?"

There was a brief pause, and Christine could sense Erik withdrawing into himself. His voice, when it came, was like ice.

"No? I'm afraid I'm missing your meaning, daroga ... do enlighten me."

The Persian sighed, and Christine could feel his frustration at Erik's wilful misunderstanding.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Erik didn't reply. Christine could hear him shuffling sheets of music on the piano and recognised it as an displacement tactic to prevent his having to answer. This was Erik at his worst; defensive, withdrawn, and utterly impossible to get a straight answer from.

"This isn't going to help you get over her, you know," the Persian said finally. "It can't be healthy for you."

"Perhaps one day she'll kill me," said Erik, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "What a loss that would be."

"Don't be flippant, Erik," the Persian said sharply. "She's not worth this."

Christine heard Erik turn, could almost feel the fury rising in his voice.

"Much as it apparently entertains you to interfere in things which do not concern you, Nadir, I might advise keeping your opinions to yourself - nobody wants to hear them, and it might prove infinitely more prudent so far as your health is concerned."

"Tell me why she's worth it, then." Christine silently marvelled at the audacity of a man who was either very brave or very stupid to wilfully provoke Erik's anger like this. "Explain to me just why she is worth risking everything you have built up in the last fifteen years - you can't believe you're the only person out there with the capacity to teach her."

She heard Erik sigh, his anger dissipating. There was a long pause before he spoke, and when he did, the words were unexpectedly reasoned, and just a little sad.

"Do you know, Nadir, she has no idea just how beautiful she is? Or how extraordinarily talented? And the reason she doesn't know is because no one is that whole Godforsaken Opera House cares enough to tell her!"

A pause.

"And that's my job. I am the one to tell her, the one to ensure she can be what she should. And I _won't_ relinquish her incredible talent to the vultures up above who only care for her voice in relation to what it can bring them!"

"And you?" The Persian's voice didn't sound suspicious anymore, only faintly sad. "You only care for her in the capacity of ...?"

Christine heard Erik begin to laugh, very softly, utterly without humour. 

"Very clever, Nadir," he said quietly. "But you're forgetting one thing. I'm not one of your petty Mazenderan convicts. I will not be trapped like that. I am her current tutor - and so far as you or anyone else is concerned, that is where my interest in her begins and ends."

Christine closed her eyes and balled her hands to fists in the folds of her skirt.

She heard the Persian sigh.

"Be careful, Erik ..." he said quietly. "Nothing's changed so far as her feelings for you are concerned, you know."

There was a long silence.

"I think you've said quite enough," said Erik, very quietly, suddenly sounding very tired. "You know the way out."

"Erik ..."

There was another long silence, then Christine heard the door opening and shrank back into the shadows. The Persian disappeared down a narrow corridor with the confidence of long familiarity, and Christine knelt outside the door for a moment longer, wondering whether she dared go back in.

As she hesitated, there came a sudden crash from inside, startling her so badly that she dropped her music onto the sandy floor. As she knelt to retrieve it, she peeked nervously round the door.

She saw the shattered remains of the vase which Erik had evidently hurled into the cold black marble of the fireplace, saw him, standing with his back to her, pull a hand back through his hair in a gesture of hopeless futility.

He turned slightly, staring hopelessly round at the room, then, sinking to his knees, covered his face with his hands as his body began to shake with silent anguish.

Christine remained still for a moment longer, her hand lingering on the doorknob. 

__

Oh God, tell me what to do ...

She took one final look into the room; Erik still knelt motionless on the floor, one hand clenched to a fist, the other covering his face. 

She rose and began to make her way down the corridor to the outside door. Once outside, she glanced around the teeming street for a moment before pulling up her hood to cover her hair and stepping out of the shadows to join the crowds.

A hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she jumped, dropping her music again. A hand reached down and picked it up, offering it back to her.

"May I speak with you?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - OK, well, um, this is a chapter in which things get stirred up (thank you, Nadir :P) and plots are formed (courtesy of Cosette) - it's really just a build-up to the next chapter, which I already have written - so that should be up in a day or two! :) (So please forgive me the shortness and lack of Erik!!)

Maya: *laughs* I swear, sweetie, you have some sort of second sight!! Yup - you guessed right, of course it's Nadir :) Who else could interfere so much and still be so adorable?!

Christine Persephone: *beams* I know, isn't it scary? I decided that Christine deserved a heroine with a little character - and I love the idea of her as Carmen - it's just so not her!! **:**D

Christine caught her breath and looked up to see the face of Erik's friend, the Persian.

"Monsieur!" She caught herself, realising how flustered she sounded. "What a pleasant surprise."

He smiled. "Might I invite you for a drink while we talk?"

Christine nodded, suddenly nervous. Nadir gestured towards a small cafe, secluded under a voluminous overhang which shaded the diners from the sun, just across the street, and Christine took his arm in consent.

They sat in silence while the waiter brought their drinks, Nadir briefly nodding his thanks.

Christine picked up her glass and took a sip, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Well ..." she began nervously, trying to smile.

Her companion smiled and set down his own glass, his expression turning serious.

"Mademoiselle ... I daresay you think me dreadfully presumptuous, please forgive me. But I think that you and I have something rather important in common, and ... well, as the two people who know him best, I'd rather like to think we both have his best interests at heart."

Christine took another sip of her water, her mouth suddenly very dry.

He continued, "I apologise for interrupting you earlier - I wasn't aware that you had resumed your lessons. I have to confess, I'm a little surprised ... after what occurred ..."

He broke off, closing his fingers lightly around his glass.

"I'm rather surprised that Monsieur le Vicomte is allowing it."

He paused, studying her face. Christine felt her face growing hot, and she dropped her eyes helplessly away from his.

"Unless of course ... he doesn't know."

Christine bit her lip.

"I ... don't want him to know. Erik is ... far and away the best teacher I've ever had - I don't see why I should need to end all that just because I'm getting married. But ... Raoul wouldn't like it."

"Do you think you can keep them apart?"

Christine sighed. "I can try. I don't want to have to choose between them - I love Raoul, and I care about Erik ... it's in a different way, and now how he would have me care for him - but I do. Whatever he might believe. And I don't want to lose either of them - they're both so integral to my life now, I can't imagine being without either one of them."

Nadir took a deep breath. He seemed to be attempting to gather courage to say something he feared might offend her.

"Monsieur, please, may we be honest with each other? Say what you mean - it will save us both a lot of trouble in the long run."

He glanced at her and nodded.

"Very well. I ... want you to consider the possibility that your being there is going to do him more harm than good. He's ... so much happier when you're there ... you give him a purpose, a reason to stay alive. But ..."

He paused, and she heard him sigh.

"I'm worried how he's going to cope with your getting married. I'm ... not sure he's strong enough."

"He will get over me, in time," Christine whispered, knowing even as she said it that she was wrong.

Nadir shook his head immediately, rejecting the suggestion.

"No," he said with certainty. "He may learn to live at peace with his love for you ... in time, he may even learn to be your friend and nothing more. But he won't stop loving you. And ... that's what I'm afraid of."

He took a sip of wine, and Christine could feel him wondering just how far he dared infringe the laws of etiquette.

"Mademoiselle ... you must know how much your last ... encounter hurt him. I don't know how he seems to you now ...?"

Christine studied her drink. "He seems ... quiet," she said softly, tipping her glass lightly from one side to the other, watching the water sparkle as it caught the light. "Withdrawn. And he won't look at me." She sighed. "I don't know why he agreed to teach me again, if it's only going to hurt him more."

"Because he loves you." He sighed and passed a hand through his hair. "And he thinks that having you near him - in any capacity - is going to hurt him less than never seeing you at all. Short term, I suppose he's probably right. But long-term ..." He shook his head.

"Long-term, I think he's just being foolish. He thinks himself to be stronger than he really is - whether he likes to admit it or not, I don't think he's capable of surrendering you to another man without doing some serious damage to himself."

"You don't think I should marry Raoul, then?"

"I don't think you can ... not if you want to retain any semblance of a relationship with Erik. You must know how withdrawn he gets when he feels himself to be vulnerable - I should imagine you're feeling it rather acutely at the moment - and if nothing else, I think that alone will make your relationship impossible."

He took another sip of his wine and smiled sadly. "You know, he once said to me that you were the only thing that made his life worth living."

Christine frowned. "That doesn't sound like him."

He smiled. "No ... it doesn't, does it?" The smile faded. "He was ... very drunk ..." He sighed. "Very drunk, and very maudlin. He's ... always been terrified of losing you, and that night ..." He shook his head.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. But, Mademoiselle, please - take time to consider your next move." He smiled and rose. "I don't ask that you take my advice - I may be proven to be entirely wrong. But somehow ... somehow I don't think I am."

He dropped several banknotes on the table, bowed to Christine, and disappeared into the teeming crowds.

Christine sat back in her chair, smiling her thanks automatically as the waiter came to clear away the drinks.

"What am I going to do?" she said aloud to a small thrush which was hovering nearby, hoping for some scraps from a table. "What am I going to do?"

***

Christine was wandering more or less aimlessly through the Opera. She didn't want to go home - she couldn't face Raoul - and she didn't want to go to her dressing room, just in case Erik was there ... this was a decision she had to make without their influence.

"Christine!"

Christine turned to see Cosette Graham bearing down on her. She took her arm and began to lead her down the corridor, somewhat to Christine's bemusement.

"Hello, Cosette," she said with an uncertain smile.

"Now, Christine," Cosette's voice changed tone and became serious. "My dear, I simply have to talk to you. I have to beg your forgiveness for the way I behaved at rehearsal the other day. It was completely uncalled for and I've been feeling simply dreadful ever since." She stopped and turned Christine to face her, looking as contrite and unhappy as she could. "Please say you forgive me, I just can't imagine what inspired me to behave like that."

Christine blinked, more than just a little surprised by this sudden change of heart. "Well ... I mean, that's fine." She smiled cautiously. "No harm was done."

Cosette sighed in relief, silently thanking the gods for Christine's trusting nature.

"Would you like to go and sit down and have a chat before rehearsal starts?" she suggested, pretending to check her watch.

"Well ... yes, if you like," agreed Christine cautiously.

Cosette breathed an inward sigh of relief.

This was going to be easier than she had thought.

***

An hour later, Cosette was sitting alone in her dressing room, fuming. If she had been in a cartoon, doubtless there would have been smoke pouring from her ears - as it was, she wasn't far away from that.

Christine had come, albeit a little reluctantly, and made polite small talk for about twenty minutes. But when Cosette had tried to slip in something about the Opera Ghost, Christine had dropped her drink - which Cosette would now have to mop up - and after a few awkward evasions, excused herself with the pretence of a headache.

Cosette glowered. This was going to be next to impossible - none of her attempts to attract the ghost had been successful (how effective could calling to a spectre in an empty auditorium _be_, anyway?) and the only person who knew anything about him seemed determined not to tell.

Scowling, she stood up and kicked the table. It didn't help. She made her way out into the corridor where, as luck would have it, she saw Raoul leading Christine, looking a little pale, away down the corridor, his voice raised in animated narration.

She waited a moment to ensure that they weren't coming back, then ran to Christine's dressing room, carefully locking the door behind her. If Christine wouldn't tell her about the Phantom, perhaps her room would.

Cosette turned her attention to the dresser and a small sheaf of papers scattered over it. She scanned them all quickly - all asinine, juvenile little love notes from Raoul, so far as she could tell - then caught her breath. Lying a little way away from the rest of the papers was a letter in an envelope, addressed in red ink and graceful handwriting - the same handwriting on the notes Monsieur Firmin had shown her at the very beginning - with a single red rose laid beside it, and a sheet of music folded underneath.

She picked it up, her heart beating faster with anticipation. This might just be the break she had been waiting for ... She momentarily checked herself when she realised the letter was still sealed, then laughed inwardly at her own folly and ripped it open regardless. 

__

Dear Christine,

Try these scales on your own and let me know how you get on with them. I won't be around this afternoon - so if you need me, leave a note in Box Five and I'll come directly I return.

Good luck at rehearsal and don't forget to watch your entrance to Havanaise.

~ Erik

Cosette stared at the letter for a moment, thanking the gods for this inexplicable good fortune. This indeed was the break she had been waiting for - a name and a way to contact him!

A slow smile spread over her face as she realised an even better way to play it. A way which wouldn't really involve her at all ...

She riffled through the papers once more before finding what she was looking for - a half-finished letter from Christine to one of her countless admirers, a polite, kindly refusal. She slipped it and the letter from her own personal ghost into her pocket, pausing on second thought to add the rose and the music.

All she needed now was the consent of her manager ...

***

"No. Absolutely not."

Cosette bit back a scream of fury as Firmin laid down his spectacles on the desk to look up at her. 

"Monsieur, believe me, this will work. It will work - and what is more, it is the only thing which will."

"I hired you as bait. This insane scheme of yours seems to involve nobody other than Christine Daaé as the prize to lure him out - a trick we've tried before, without, I might remind you, overly successful results."

"Perhaps so. But Monsieur, rest assured, so far as my capacities as bait go, I am sadly lacking. The only bait he will come for is her, of that I am quite sure." Sensing a weakening of her opponent, she drove her advantage home, reiterating her points with a tap on the desk with her pen.

"A note from Christine appears for him. I have her handwriting, I can work from that. He's not expecting one unless it's an emergency - so he hurries to her directly. He's distracted, concerned for her, he's off his guard - and that's when we strike." She slammed the pen down onto the table. "Armed gendarmes surrounding the room - but Christine must be in there alone, or he won't come in. They hear his voice when he comes to her, burst in, shoot - and your problem is solved once and for all."

Firmin sighed. She made an attractive offer ... but Gilles' reaction if they were to place Christine Daaé in any further danger ... or Raoul's, come to that ... There were too many risks, too many things which could go wrong.

"And if it fails?"

She shrugged, tossing back her hair in a disarming display of arrogance. "How can it fail? It's so simple - there is nowhere it can go wrong. Christine is in no danger - the only danger is to him, and so far as I understood you, you had little cause for complaint should that turn out to be the case."

Firmin fell silent. Cosette waited, holding her breath - she was quite convinced that if this scheme failed, the ghost of the Opera Populaire would continue to haunt the theatre as long as he pleased. _Couldn't he see it was the only way ...?_

"Right," said Firmin suddenly, standing up and knocking the photograph of his long-suffering wife off the desk, where it lay on the thick carpet without being retrieved. "Write the note, and I'll have the Surete ready for him."

Cosette screamed inwardly with triumph.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N - First of all, big hugs and thank yous to Maya for helping me sort out this chapter!! And of course, sooo much love and cookies to everyone who's reviewed!! Thank you so much!! :)

Chicketieboo - calm down!! *hugs* Don't get too overexcited!! And actually ... no, I don't hate Cosette. I actually feel rather sorry for her, because I know her past (which I may or may not put into the fic, depending on how lazy I am!!) Just take my word for it that there is a reason she's such a bitch. I promise!! :)

Firmin was pacing up and down the managers' office.

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked.

Cosette rolled her eyes inwardly. "If I wasn't, Monsieur, you would be the last person I'd tell." Cosette was wearing a long white dress and, with her hair loose over her shoulders and the radiant smile she could turn on and off like a tap, she looked deceptively angelic.

Firmin stopped pacing to look at her. "How you can remain so calm is utterly beyond me."

Cosette shrugged. "Take it as proof of my faith in this strategy."

He nodded, seeming briefly appeased. "Oh ... I forgot to ask. Do you want Christine to know what's going on?"

"Definitely not." Cosette shook her head firmly. "She'd ruin everything, somehow - I don't say she'd mean to, but her middle name is incompetence - she'd never be able to pull it off." She shook her head again. "How she has ever managed to make her name as an actress is quite beyond me." She paused. "And Monsieur le Vicomte mustn't know, either. You know how compulsive he is regarding her welfare."

Firmin nodded. "Very well." He stopped to look at her. "Mademoiselle ... you are aware that your contract states that your presence will be required until this creature is caught, aren't you?"

Cosette tossed her hair coolly back over her shoulder. "Of course, Monsieur. I fully expect to be relieved of my duties later this afternoon."

"With a little luck ..." Firmin murmured, sitting heavily down at his desk and taking out his pen to finish work on the accounts.

***

Erik glanced in on Box Five as he returned to the theatre. He knew there would be nothing there, but a spark of hope at the back of his mind which would not be silenced forbade him to pass it by without even checking.

And today - he almost missed it, his glance was so cursory - there was a letter, a small white rectangle propped up against one of the columns. He picked it up, forcing himself to resist the temptation to rip off the envelope, savouring the brief scent of her perfume.

The note was short, and to the point. He read it once, and his face darkened with sudden concern. The unfamiliar slant to her handwriting convinced him that it had been written in a hurry; tucking it into his cloak, he disappeared back into the column from which he had emerged, and made his way towards Christine's dressing room.

***

Christine looked up in surprise. 

"Erik!"

He took a step into the room, his eyes skating over her with concern.

"Are you all right?"

Before she had a chance to answer, the room erupted into confusion. Armed gendarmes burst in through the door, almost knocking it off its hinges, and even as Erik retreated with lightning speed back through the mirror, a gunshot rang out. He felt a searing pain slice through his shoulder, and staggered backwards into the safety of the passage behind the mirror. He could hear Christine screaming, and then, through the tumultuous shouting which echoed down the path from the small dressing room, another voice.

"Shh, Christine, darling, it's all right, you're safe now ... it's all over, you won't have to do anything more ..."

Erik stopped, a sudden ringing in his ears momentarily eclipsing the pain in his shoulder. _It's all over ... you won't have to do anything more ..._

She _knew_ about this? He stumbled, reaching out for the wall to steady himself, momentarily blinded by the pain which tore through his shoulder.

__

Christine ...

"No," he said aloud, his voice sounding weak in the echoing expanse of underground passageway. "No ..." She _couldn't_ have been involved ...

__

No.

__

She couldn't have known.

He was on his feet again, forcing himself downwards through the red haze of pain.

__

No.

He stumbled, catching at the wall, grazing his hand. He hardly felt the pain, though he stared at the blood for a moment without comprehension.

__

Christine ...

No.

He had reached the door, and staggered, fumbling at the catch. Somehow he found himself inside, his vision blurring, his step unsteady.

A trace of her perfume caught him as soon as he entered the room, and suddenly everything clicked into perfect vision, his head swimming._ Everything here was hers._ The cloak draped over the chair - the blue one, with the red trim - the music spread out over the piano ... the drawing of Ayesha she had so laboured over ...

Moving slowly, feeling detached from everything around him, he approached the couch and touched the cloak. The sensation came as if from a distance ... so soft. Just like her hair ...

He knelt beside the couch and hesitantly took the cloak into his hands, brushing the material across his cheek. Her scent still clung to it ...

__

No!

He was still kneeling on the floor with the cloak in his arms when the alarm went off and the door burst open.

***

Raoul was pacing up and down the floor of the managers' office, absolutely livid. 

"What the bloody hell was going on today? Christine could have been killed, and it didn't occur to either of you to do us the courtesy of _informing_ us that you were setting a mantrap with her as the bait?!"

"Monsieur, please calm down ..." Andre was almost as distressed as Raoul - he hadn't been informed that Christine was the prize the Phantom had come to claim, and the thought of what might have happened had something gone wrong made him shiver.

"No harm was done," remarked Firmin coolly, crossing out an entry in his accounts book.

"No harm?!" Raoul exploded. "Christine is in bed, sedated, at this moment because neither of you thought to mention it to her that she was going to have her dressing room invaded by the entire Paris Surete! She could have been killed!"

"But she wasn't," interrupted Firmin. Of the three, he was by far the least agitated, and seemed to be the only one in the Opera House to remain undisturbed by Raoul's fury. "She's fine ... and we've finally managed to rid ourselves of that creature." He paused, glancing up at Raoul with a cool eye. "I should have thought that you of all people would be happy about that."

Raoul hesitated. "You don't know that he's gone. He had strength enough in him to disappear again, didn't he?"

Firmin rose and laid a paternal hand on Raoul's shoulder. "A party of gendarmes are going down into the cellars tonight. Believe me - he won't escape this time."

***

Nadir slammed the door behind him and moved towards his friend with concern.

"Erik, what's going on ... they're saying they've shot the ghost ..."

Erik looked slowly up at him, his eyes dull.

"It was a trap," he said, very quietly, his fingers closing convulsively in the fold of her cloak again. "She sent me a note ..." He made a self-derisive sound of contempt. "I walked straight into it ..."

Nadir stared at him for a moment with blank incomprehension. "She helped them to trap you?"

Erik turned away. "I suppose that when it all comes down to it, love calls with more persuasion than the voice of an angel ..." His fingers sought out the wound in his shoulder.

Nadir remained silent for a few more moments, unable to understand what would have effected this sudden change of heart in Christine. A sound from above made him look up sharply.

"You have to leave here at once," he said with sudden urgency. "They will be down after you again ..."

Erik drew a caressing hand across the softness of the cloak. "It doesn't matter ..."

"Of course it matters!"

"No ..." He laughed with a sudden weak bitterness. "I always said she'd kill me one day ... I suppose the day has just finally come ..."

"No!"

Erik found himself unable to summon the willpower to resist his friend's furious determination, and when Nadir helped him out by the Rue Scribe passage, supporting him as best he could without attracting undue attention, and bundled him into a carriage, he closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness with an image of Christine burning against the insides of his eyelids.

***

Nadir closed the door very quietly. Erik was finally sleeping, the bullet removed, the wound neatly bandaged. 

"Damn you, daroga," he had murmured. "Why are you always so intent on preserving my life?"

Nadir sank down slowly into a chair, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Is he all right, master?"

Nadir looked up to see Darius standing over him.

"He'll live," he said finally. In the following silence that fell, they both knew that that wasn't what Darius had meant.

"Do you want me to go and sit with him?" Darius asked finally.

Nadir shook his head. "No, let him sleep ... I gave him enough laudanum to knock out a horse, he shouldn't wake again until morning." He glanced up at his servant and for the first time saw the dark circles under his eyes. It had been a long night.

"Go and get some sleep yourself. I'll see you in the morning."

Darius nodded and left Nadir alone, sipping a glass of brandy and staring morosely into the fire until morning.

***

Nadir had been wrong. Erik wasn't asleep.

He stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing, feeling no pain in his shoulder - feeling nothing but the pure anguish of Christine's betrayal.

Raoul's voice echoed in his head, merciless, mocking.

__

It's over. You're safe now. Darling. It's all over ...

He could still hear her screaming.

__

Oh God, no ...

He closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists. It had all been a sham. Every moment they had spent together ... every time she had sung for him, every conversation they'd ever had ... every moment they had ever been together, she had been wishing herself somewhere else. One long series of little moments which were everything to him ... treasures which meant nothing to her.

He had genuinely believed there was a chance. Against all his reason, the logic which he had long since forced to the back of his mind, he had wanted to believe in her so much. She had seemed so _happy ..._ lingering in his house long after her lesson was finished, trying to play his music on the piano, laughing when she couldn't ... she had even stayed in her old room one night when they had talked until it was too late for her to safely venture home alone.

All an act ... every nuance of her smile, every note of laughter, every word of a song ... it had all been an act, waiting for the final, ultimate betrayal.

Maybe tomorrow would bring anger. Anger at her wilful manipulation of his helpless adoration of her, rage at her _cruelty_ - she of all people knew how much she meant to him - perhaps, for a while, anger would help him to forget.

But tonight ... tonight he could feel nothing but the pain, see nothing but the slow sight of his dream disintegrating before his eyes.

He sat up, very slowly, careful of his shoulder. From a pocket in his cloak, which Nadir had draped over a chair, he withdrew a sketch he had once made of her.

He stared at it with anguished longing for a long moment. He remembered the day he had drawn it so well ... many months ago now, her embarrassed laughter as she tried to sit still, fading to admiration as he showed her the first draft. She had laughed, and leaned closer to examine the paper, her hair spilling over his shoulders. "Is there _anything_ you can't do?!"

He touched the paper hesitantly, tracing the line of her jaw with infinite tenderness.

__

Oh, God ...

He didn't know if he could bear it if this this was to be the closest he would ever get to her again.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N - Hi guys! Thank you so much to all my reviewers - I love you all :)

Now, halfway through this chapter is a completely miscellaneous scene wherein Firmin gets what he deserves :P It isn't really terribly relevant - but Maya was begging me to let her beat him up ... so I thought I'd write her in :) (Couldn't quite fit Sigi's steel-toed boots into it, honey, but you can imagine!! ;) )

And angelofnight - the reason Erik didn't realise the handwriting was Christine's was because Cosette had a sample of her handwriting and was working from that - it was only a short note, and he assumed she'd just been in a hurry writing it. And he was a little freaked - we all know how over-protective he is of her!

Nadir entered the room cautiously. Erik was fully dressed, sitting at the window, staring at the sky.

"You should be in bed," he said softly, moving to sit beside him.

Erik looked up slowly. "No ... convalescence is an unnecessary process for the feeble-minded."

Nadir looked at him, faintly surprised in spite of himself. "You've been shot, Erik - that isn't a petty wound you can take care of by yourself."

"Nonsense ..." Erik said distantly. "It's just a scratch." He stood up abruptly and picked up his cloak from its place on the chair. He swung the cloak over his shoulder - using, Nadir noticed, his right arm - and turned towards the door.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going out," he said shortly. "I'm damned if I'm going to let those vultures at the Opera tear apart everything I own."

Nadir was shaking his head, moving to block the door.

"You're not going anywhere," he said firmly. "You are in no condition to take care of yourself at present. Tell me what you need and I'll fetch it myself."

Erik laughed softly. "No, daroga ... I shan't know myself until I get there. I'll be fine ... the day any man lays a hand on me and I find myself unable to prevent it is a day I shall be very happy to meet my Maker." He smiled wryly. "Although I think my chances of a one-on-one interview are perhaps slender."

Nadir stared at his friend, and was struck with the sudden contrast between the young man he had first known thirty years ago, embittered by the tragedies life had inflicted on him, but still eager to live, to discover the world's secrets - and the man he saw before him now. Something inside him had withered - and now Nadir saw nothing in him but a man desperately awaiting the release of death. "You mustn't go," he said helplessly.

Erik looked at his friend, and seemed to soften.

"I won't be long," he said.

***

Erik lifted the cat into his arms, hs fingers exploring her fur. She seemed unharmed - if heartily indignant at his desertion.

Glancing around the house, he sighed. All the repair work he had done had been destroyed; the gendarmes had apparently left no stone unturned in their search for him.

He drew a deep breath and, setting Ayesha gently down onto the shredded carpet, walked over to Christine's room. He laid his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. _Perhaps not such a good idea ..._

He turned away and moved to sit in one of the armchairs, its leather slashed in numerous places but the frame still largely intact. He looked over at the hidden door with mixed emotions. It was only a room ... but it was _her_s. He swore and slammed his fist into the arm of the chair, raising a small cloud of dust which came to settle on his jacket sleeve. Ayesha leapt lightly up to sit beside him, pushing her head against his hand, demanding attention. He smiled faintly and brushed his fingers lightly down her spine.

"You'll be happy now," he murmured through a sudden lump in his throat. "No more Christine ..."

His voice was barely audible over the cat's ecstatic purring.

***

"So at seven francs per pair of ballet shoes, over a period of ..."

"Richard ..."

Andre gestured for Firmin to be quiet and rose nervously to greet the woman who stood simmering in the doorway.

"Madame Firmin ... how lovely to see you ..."

"Hello, Gilles, nice to see you," she said coldly. Ignoring Andre's fluttering attempts to keep her calm, she directed her glare at her husband.

"Hello, Maya," Firmin said with a weak smile, rising to kiss his wife. She waved him away, raising her hands to stop him in his tracks.

"Richard," she said, ominously calmly. "Do you know what date it is today?"

Firmin glanced at the calendar. "June the fifteenth," he said warily. "Why?" Glancing past his wife, he saw Andre waving his hands frantically, desperately mouthing something.

"That's right, Richard. June the fifteenth. Does that date mean anything to you?"

Firmin stared at his friend, mystified. 

"Anniversary!" hissed Andre finally in desperation.

Firmin swore inwardly. "My dear ..." he tried weakly, "you didn't think I'd forget our wedding anniversary ...?"

"Thank you, Gilles!" she snapped, whirling round and shooting Andre a glare which could rival the Gorgon Medusa's, both in venom and effect.

"I ... I'll just be in the ... auditorium," muttered Andre, edging towards the door and darting out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. As he hurried away down the corridor, he could hear Maya Firmin's voice raised in furious tirade at her husband.

"Twenty seven years, Richard! How hard can it be to remember one day out of three hundred and sixty five? I've barely seen you for weeks ... you're always here, and when you do finally deign to grace us with your presence, all you can talk about is your ghost, and the price of ballet shoes, and the entire bloody Opera House!"

Her voice faded as Andre hurried to the front entrance of the Opera. A few minutes later, Maya Firmin came storming out, her hair flying, her face like stone. Andre shrank into the shadows to avoid her notice, then, as the door slammed with tremendous force, dislodging dust from the rafters, he walked back to the office. He entered cautiously and saw Firmin bent double, breathing hard.

Firmin looked up and saw Andre. "Bloody woman!" he managed in a voice somewhat higher than usual.

Andre just managed to mumble an excuse and step out into the passage before he burst out laughing.

***

Erik was sitting alone by the window, gazing out at the sky, his eyes distant.

Nadir racked his brains for something to say. "Chess, Erik?" he said finally.

Erik glanced briefly at him, then looked away, shaking his head. "No ... thank you." His voice sounded distant too.

Nadir caught Darius' eye, looking concerned, before his servant hastily turned away, unwilling to be caught staring by their notoriously volatile houseguest. 

"Why don't you play me something?" he suggested, feeling utterly inadequate. Erik looked round sharply, a flicker of quickly-suppressed pain in his eyes.

"No," he said shortly.

Nadir sighed, and the room lapsed into silence again. Erik had brought his violin back from the Opera with him, but since then it had lain untouched in a corner of his room - he seemed unable to bear the thought of anything that reminded him of Christine, however slightly.

"Are you warm enough?" he said finally.

Erik turned very slowly to look at him, his eyes finally focusing. "Nadir," he said slowly, "I appreciate all you're trying to do - but I'm not a child. You don't have to nursemaid me."

"I'm worried about you," Nadir said quietly. "How long can you sit there and stare out of the window? Dwelling on it like this can't be healthy for you."

"Dwelling on what, Nadir?" Suddenly Erik's sounded cold, a warning note in his voice telling Nadir to tread very carefully. "What exactly would you like me to turn around and forget?"

Nadir sighed. "Don't start that, Erik," he said wearily. "Your physical intimidation stopped having any effect on me years ago."

Erik rose stiffly, running his long fingers along the windowsill. "I'd be exceptionally impressed if that were the case, Nadir," he said coldly. "You of all people know what I really am capable of."

"You know, Erik, if you had a slightly higher opinion of yourself, the world might treat you a little better," Nadir said quietly.

"And if I were an armadillo, it might treat me a little worse," Erik said incomprehensibly.

"I'm serious," Nadir said, aware of how dangerous the ground he was getting onto was, and yet desperate to keep Erik in active conversation. "You think more badly of yourself than anyone else does."

Erik turned to look at him, his eyes suddenly sad again. "I think that highly unlikely, Nadir," he said quietly, sitting slowly back down. "Not everyone is so blinded by the past as you yourself are." He fell silent, staring down at his hands, and Nadir silently cursed himself.

He rose and poured a glass of brandy from a decanter on the side table, handing it to Erik in silence.

Erik downed it neat in one swallow without comment.

"Erik ..." Nadir said helplessly. 

Erik shook his head, his eyes sad. "Don't," he said quietly. He lifted Ayesha into his arms, his fingers gently exploring her fur. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing at Nadir. "I know you don't like cats." He sighed as Ayesha rubbed her head against his face with ecstasy. "It won't be for long now."

Nadir shook his head. "It's fine," he said quietly, taking a step forward and cautiously brushing his hand down her back. "We're getting used to each other now, aren't we, Ayesha?"

Ayesha twisted round in displeasure at the unfamiliar touch, and spat at him.

Erik smiled mechanically and turned back to the window, his fingers automatically soothing the ruffled cat.

"Master ..." Nadir looked up to see Darius hovering in the doorway. "There is a lady to see you."

Nadir glanced at Erik, but he had turned back to the window and did not seem to have heard. He rose and made his way out into the hall.

"Darius, you haven't left the poor woman standing out on the step? Go and let her in, for God's sake!"

Darius was hovering uncertainly behind Nadir. "I think that perhaps you should see her before you decide to let her in, Master ..." 

Nadir shot him a puzzled glance but nevertheless opened the door to see who his unexpected caller was. She turned to face him when she heard the door open, her hair covered with the hood of her cloak, her smile suddenly radiant.

"Monsieur!" 

Her relief was evident in her voice.

"Is he here? Is he safe?"

Nadir stepped out of the flat and closed the door firmly behind him to prevent Erik from catching the treacherously familiar tones of her voice.

"I fear I cannot be pleased at your presence here, Mademoiselle. The sooner you leave, the better it will be for all of us."

Christine looked bewildered. "I don't understand."

Her well-performed innocence, with just the right degree of incomprehension, made Nadir lose his temper. 

"Wasn't it enough for you to break his heart and destroy his soul the first time around? What on _earth_ possessed you to go along with this? I thought you cared about him!" Forcing himself to lower his voice, he added with venom, "and worse, so did he."

Christine stared at him with utter incomprehension.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Is he all right? They said he'd been shot ..."

"How you can have the _nerve_ to come here after what you've done ..." Nadir took a deep breath to try to calm his anger. "I think you should leave now."

Christine was shaking her head.

"I want to see him."

Nadir moved to block the door. "Definitely not. You've done enough damage, I won't have you going in there to finish off what you've begun."

"Maybe he'll explain to me what you won't! And you know he'd want to see me ..."

"Did it ever occur to you that even the most intense of loves can die? When it's abused and broken so consistently over such a long period ... I don't know what on earth makes you imagine that he would still want to see you after what you've done!" 

"What have I done?!" Christine's voice was shrill and close to tears now. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Nadir sighed. "Just go, Christine," he said, very quietly. "He doesn't want to see you. Go back to the Opera and marry the Vicomte - just try to treat him a little better than you've treated Erik all this time."

Christine stared at him for a long moment, tears brimming in her eyes.

"Will you tell him I came?" she whispered.

Nadir shook his head. "No." He paused. "God knows, he's done enough in his life to condemn him to an eternity in hell, but I never imagined his punishment would be this severe - I'm damned if I'll contribute to it."

Christine blinked rapidly. "I don't know why you're being like this," she said, very quietly, her voice shaking. "Please, tell him I came. Let him make up his own mind as to whether or not he wants to see me."

Nadir turned around and opened the door. "Goodbye, Mademoiselle," he said quietly. "I hope we shall never have cause to meet again." He closed the door quietly behind him, and Christine, left standing alone on the step, stared hopelessly around the street for a moment. Rows of closed doors and shuttered windows mocked her; stifling a sob, she turned and made her way back to the Opera.

Suddenly so much emptier ...


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - In this chapter, we have lots of misunderstandings and confusion so far as Christine's concerned (always good :) ), some Erik angst (even better!) and the beginning of Cosette's redemption - although from conversations I've had with readers, I'm a little afraid I've made her too nasty in the earlier chapters!! Just try to forgive and forget ...! Oh - and Raoul gets an active part ;)

Christine, concealed in the shadows, watched Nadir close the door and hurry away towards the market. As soon as she was sure he was gone, she pulled up the hood of her cloak to cover her hair and hurried up the steps to his front door. She knocked lightly, her eyes scanning the street anxiously to ensure he was not returning.

Darius opened the door, starting slightly as he saw the guest.

"Mademoiselle ..."

"No," she said quickly, motioning with her hand for him to be silent. "I need you to help me. Give this letter to the man who is currently staying in this house; will you do that for me?"

Darius stayed silent a moment, before nodding and taking the faintly scented envelope from her.

"Yes, mademoiselle," he said expressionlessly.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much," she said earnestly. "This means so much to me." She pressed his hand briefly in gratitude before glancing furtively around the street again and hurrying away.

Darius closed the door slowly and looked down at the envelope in his hand. He glanced towards the room in which Erik was seated, and after a moment's hesitation, crumpled the letter and dropped it into his pocket. 

"The time for making amends is past," he murmured to himself in Persian. "All that can be left is the healing."

***

Nadir entered the house and handed his coat to Darius.

"Master ..."

Nadir turned back to him. "Yes?"

Darius handed him a sheet of paper and took a step back, watching him open it. He unfolded it, recognising the handwriting and trademark red ink.

__

I feel I have trespassed upon your hospitality for quite long enough. Your continued kindness has been greatly appreciated, but as I am no longer in need of assistance, I see no reason for prolonging this inconvenience to you.

There followed an address, and the simple signature _Erik_.

He sighed, feeling a sensation of unease steal over him. This was a letter left not to a friend, but as to a stranger - overly formal and polite, it betrayed no sentiment or reasons for this unexpected departure ... he sat down and studied the note.

"Did you see him leave?" he asked without looking up at Darius.

"No, master."

Nadir sighed. He should have known - no one would ever see Erik leave as he passed like a shadow from one tomb to another.

"All right," he said wearily. 

"Master ..." He looked up to see Darius hovering. 

"Yes?"

"Perhaps ... perhaps this time he would like to be left alone to recover in peace with his memories?"

Nadir looked at him for a moment then nodded in acquiescence.

"I daresay you're right," he conceded. "In a month, perhaps ..."

***

Nadir checked the sheet of paper for directions, and realised that his first deduction had been right - the dingy block of flats, cheap and in a distinctly unsavoury neighbourhood, was indeed the place to which Erik's direction had led him. He glanced up and started with surprise; in a window of one of the higher flats, silhouetted against the light, sat a tall figure, stiffly rigid, staring blankly out of the window. Nadir watched him for a moment, as he sat perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe. He wondered briefly how long he would sit there for without moving; his customary apathy for food and current distaste for life might dictate longer than could be healthy.

Nadir took a deep breath and opened the door to the block of flats, beginning to climb the long, dimly lit stairs.

He checked the number on the door against his letter, and knocked.

There was no answer.

He tried again; still no response. He tried the handle and, somewhat to his surprise, the door opened. He entered cautiously, squinting in the sudden darkness.

"Erik?"

The figure seated at the window unfurled itself and rose slowly, disappearing into the darkness. Nadir forced himself to stand his ground, ignoring the increasing feeling of vulnerability.

"Erik, I know you're there ..."

Erik's voice came, directionless and emotionless through the darkness.

"Daroga."

"Erik ... put a light on, my eyes aren't as good in the dark as yours ..."

There was a long silence.

"I'd rather not."

"Erik ..." A chill crept down Nadir's spine. "Put a light on, for the love of Allah!"

He heard the scraping of a match, and a flame flared. Keeping the candle away from his face, Erik placed it on the table and retreated into the shadows again.

"Erik ... what's wrong?"

There was a pause.

"Why are you here?"

"I ... wanted to make sure you were all right."

"As you see, I am."

"I don't see anything, Erik ... apart from the fact that you seem determined to keep me from looking you in the face. Not exactly calculated to reassure, is it?"

There was a long pause.

"You seem to forget that I have never been overly fond of looking people in the face, so to speak."

"Erik, turn a proper light on. Common courtesy towards a guest, if nothing else."

Nadir didn't hear Erik move, but a gas light suddenly flared into life, making him squint in the sudden burst of light.

It took him a moment to locate Erik; he was standing in a corner, silently regarding Nadir, his eyes seemingly unaffected by the shift in light. Nadir was forced to suppress a gasp of shock as he saw him; he looked absolutely dreadful. While Erik had always been thin to a fault, he was now nothing short of skeletal, and the visible side of his face looked worn and utterly devoid of expression.

He raised one eyebrow cynically as he regarded Nadir's poorly suppressed shock.

"You will allow my distaste for light, I think."

Nadir was silent for a long time. 

"What are you trying to do to yourself, Erik?"

Erik shrugged. "I rarely find it necessary to concentrate such energies upon myself; the world is sufficiently adequate at ensuring my condition as to render any such efforts unnecessary."

"Don't be facetious, Erik! When was the last time you ate something proper? When was the last time you slept? Are you intending to do anything for the rest of your life other than sit in a dark room and waste away for thinking about her?!"

Erik moved sharply, turning away from him, and he cursed himself for the pain his ill-considered words must have caused his friend.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But Erik, you must see, this isn't the way to get over her."

Erik remained silent.

"Why must you punish yourself for a situation which is entirely of her making?"

"The fault was my failure to deserve her," Erik said coldly, holding Nadir's eyes just long enough for Nadir to see the utter emptiness there before turning away.

"Thank you for coming, Nadir, but I fear I have other things to which I must attend this morning."

As Nadir stepped out into the street, wondering with a deepening sense of unease as to Erik's unaccustomed brusqueness, he glanced up at the flat, and saw that Erik had resumed his seat at the window and was once more staring sightlessly at the empty sky.

***

Christine set down her needlework and glanced impatiently at the clock. She rang the bell, and the small Spanish maid appeared.

"Antonia ... have there been any messages for me?"

Antonia shook her head.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle ... I shall inform you, as I promised, if there are."

Christine forced a smile. "Thank you, Antonia. That will be all."

The small maid withdrew, and Christine sat back, confused and upset. 

__

Why hadn't he replied? Could it really be ... that he didn't care anymore?

Antonia entered the room again, and Christine sat up with nervously excited anticipation.

"Mademoiselle ... there is a gentleman to see you."

Christine went cold. It couldn't be ... he wouldn't _dare_ ...

"Show him in," she managed.

The door opened, and she rose automatically to greet her guest, forcing herself not to show her surprise in front of the maid at the unexpected identity of her visitor.

"Monsieur ... please, sit down. Thank you, Antonia, that will be all."

Nadir awkwardly twisted his hat in his hands.

"You were right," she said quietly, as soon as the maid had gone. "He doesn't want to see me."

Nadir sighed and sat down. "Yes, he does," he said quietly. "I think he wants that more than anything else in the world."

Christine studied his face carefully. "What?" she said.

Nadir passed a hand through his hair. "I'm going to be frank with you, Mademoiselle," he said. "I don't understand you."

Christine set down her teacup and sat back in her chair, listening intently.

"You know how he feels about you." He shook his head, silencing Christine, who looked as if she were about to speak. "No ... whatever you may say, he loves you ... perhaps now more than ever. It's not what he would choose ... I think that at the moment he would give everything he owns to be able to forget you." He sighed. "But he can't." He rose slowly, and began to pace the room. Christine hadn't moved. "I have known Erik for over thirty years. I've seen him go through things which you can't even imagine; seen him so weary of life that I'd leave him at night unsure as to whether I'd find him still alive in the morning." He heard Christine lean forward in her chair, and turned back to her. "But I have never seen him as wretched as he is now. I don't know what to say to him anymore; there is nothing left to say." He took a deep breath. "And that is your fault."

He heard her draw in a sharp breath and lean forward to speak again. "No ... I don't want to hear it. Whether you meant to or not, you have utterly destroyed the most unique man I have ever known. And that is why I don't understand you. He would do ... _anything_ for you. _Anything_ within his power - it can't have escaped your notice that your career at the Opera is _entirely_ down to him ... it can't have passed you by how much your little charade with Monsieur le Vicomte hurt him. And now ..." He sighed and shook his head, seeming lost for words. "Now, it's worse than ever. I don't think he ever truly believed you hated him, you know ... but now you've left him without a great deal of choice but to believe it. And that ... that's tearing him apart."

"_Why?_" Christine burst out, evidently unable to keep silent any longer. "I really don't understand you! You keep saying things like that ... but I don't understand why! Anyone would think _I_ had been involved in that foul little rat-trap on Friday ..." She broke off, unsettled by the look on Nadir's face. 

"What did you say?"

***

"Cosette!"

Cosette turned in surprise, her face lighting up. "Raoul, what a wonderful surprise!"

Raoul beamed. "I have an even better one for you."

Cosette felt herself blushing and twisted a strand of hair around her finger.

"Really?"

Raoul nodded, still grinning broadly. "There's someone here to see you." He was ushering her through the corridor now, his hand a light pressure in the small of her back.

Cosette frowned. "To see me?"

Raoul ushered her proudly into the lobby, where she saw a man standing with his back to her, studying one of the paintings. In that one moment, panic welled up inside her and she found herself praying desperately to a God in whom she had long since lost all faith.

__

Oh God, not him, please God not him ...

He turned around, his face breaking into a smile, and took a step towards her.

"Cosette!"

She took a step backwards, hysteria threatening. She felt, as if from a distance, Raoul's hand on her arm, heard his voice, concerned, questioning, murmuring her name. She turned blindly to leave, but Tom's hand closed around her arm.

"Cosette, darling ..."

"Don't touch me!" She whirled away from him, shaking his hand off her arm, but he was stronger than she was.

"Cosette ..."

She heard Raoul's voice, slightly shocked, and reached blindly out to him.

"Raoul ..."

He took hold of her, bewildered but concerned. "Cosette, sweetheart, what's wrong?" She began to sob wildly, and knew that had it not been for his arms around her, she would have fallen.

"Shh ... it's all right, I'm here, I'll protect you, calm down ..."

He looked with confusion to the man who seemed to have provoked such a violent response in her, shattering her beautifully polished ice queen reserve once and for all.

"What's wrong with her?" he whispered.

"I've no idea," the other man replied smoothly, reaching out to Cosette with patronising concern. "Come, Cosette - shall we go and have a coffee and talk about it?"

Cosette was sobbing too hard to form any kind of coherent answer, clinging to Raoul for dear life.

Tom Chandler reached out and took hold of her arm firmly. "Thank you, Monsieur," he said coolly. "I'll take it from here."

Raoul hesitated. "If she's upset ..."

"She'll be fine," the blonde man interrupted coolly. "Thank you for your concern."

Taking a firm hold of Cosette, he began to steer her away, leaving Raoul confused and worried. 

"Cosette, pull yourself together, you're making a spectacle of yourself ..."

"_No!_" Cosette began to fight wildly against his arms. 

Raoul hurried towards her. The blonde man turned towards him, his face angry now.

"I said we can manage by ourselves now, thank you very much!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm really not sure that you can." He leaned closer to Cosette. "Cosette ... what do you want me to do? Do you want me to go?"

Cosette was on her knees, her hair in disarray partially covering her face, her body racked with convulsive sobs.

"All right," he said with resolve, turning to the blonde man. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Don't be absurd," the man said coldly. "This is my fiancée. If I wish to speak with her, I will!"

"Not if she doesn't wish to speak with you," Raoul snapped.

Gilles Andre, entering the lobby with several patrons and the Firmins upon hearing raised voices, was horrified to see a well-dressed young man throwing a punch at the Vicomte de Chagny. Raoul reeled from the shock of the blow, then threw himself bodily at the other man, knocking him over. Andre rushed over to separate them, receiving a blow in the eye as he did so, but thankfully aided by several of his companions who eventually succeeded in separating the two men and holding them back. Maya Firmin had gone straight to Cosette and, wrapping her in her shawl, hurried her away to the privacy of her dressing room.

Andre was holding back Raoul, whose eye was blackened and lip swelling from a nasty cut. Far from his usual gentle affability, he was absolutely furious, and looked ready to throw himself at his opponent again at the slightest provocation. The other man, however, was in no fit state for a replay; missing several teeth, seriously marring his handsome appearance, and with what looked painfully like a broken jaw, he was leaning on the arm of one of Andre's companions, tenderly probing a swollen eye. Andre swung Raoul round to face him. 

"What on earth do you think you're doing?!" he hissed. Glancing around, he saw that an inquisitive crowd had begun to gather. Grabbing Raoul's arm, he began to steer him towards the office. 

"Where's Cosette?" was all Raoul asked.

"My wife's taking care of her," Firmin replied, ushering his partner and patron through the door. He and Andre exchanged bewildered glances behind Raoul's back - _fighting over Cosette Graham while engaged to Christine Daaé?_

***

Nadir sat forward in his chair. "I don't understand, Mademoiselle. The trap set at the Opera ..."

"Was nothing to do with me," she concluded agitatedly. She was sitting very still, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. "Oh, God ... I can't believe he thinks I would do something like that! It never occurred to me ..." She shook her head distractedly. "What must he think of me?"

"Listen to me, Mademoiselle," Nadir said earnestly. "Do you wish to see him again?"

She looked up quickly, her face tear-streaked. "Of course! I must explain ..." She shook her head. "But I don't know how I could make him agree to see me. You know how stubborn he is ..."

Nadir shook his head. "Leave that to me; I have an idea. Now, Mademoiselle, tell me - are there any nights on which you regularly do not perform at the Opera?"

Christine shook her head to clear it, slightly confused. "Tuesday and Thursday. Why ...?"

Nadir ignored her. "Will Erik know that?"

She nodded. "Of course."

Nadir smiled. "Very well. In that case, this is what we will do."

Christine leaned forward eagerly in her chair to listen to Nadir's idea.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N - chicketieboo - ah, come now, it wouldn't be any fun if it were that easy ...! ;)

Stemwinder - *laughs and hugs* This is really a reply to your review for my other long fic - thank you :) But no, I'm afraid the sequel isn't ever going to be written. I deal in angst - I'll leave it to more talented writers to tell the story of their happily ever after :) (I'm absolutely loving your sequel by the way - soo sweet and romantic!!)

Erik didn't know how long he sat there for, absently stroking Ayesha until she bored and disappeared off somewhere else in the dark little flat. It was cold, he noted absently. He should get some heating for Ayesha, she didn't like the cold. He could hear her voice raised in plaintive complaint, and wondered distantly what the matter was. He rose slowly, noting with mild surprise the stiffness in his joints. A wave of nausea passed over him and he stumbled, catching at a table and lowering himself stiffly into a chair. A myriad of emotions swept over him, and for the first time since leaving Nadir's flat, he could not summon the energy to empty his mind and force himself not to think.

__

Christine ...

He dug his nails fiercely into the palms of his hands, screwing his eyes closed and bending low until his forehead touched his knees.

__

No!

He _wouldn't_ think about her. She was a closed chapter of his life - he didn't need to think about her. She was an irrelevance. A childish fantasy - out of his system once and for all. A pretty face, a pretty voice, and that was all. _Oh God, her voice ..._ He shook his head vehemently and bit his lip until he could taste the blood. No. Just another silly ingenue - really, she had done what was best for all of them - it would be good for him to get that adolescent nonsense out of his system. Love - what an infantile notion. What fools people were, allowing themselves to be seduced into such a puerile charade that their lives were really held together by something so ephemeral.

He could hear his thoughts becoming more frenetic, less comprehensible, making less sense as he forced himself to think faster and faster to shut out the eddying tide of emotion which was threatening to break through.

Perhaps he should go to visit Nadir tomorrow, perhaps take a long walk along the boulevard, after dark of course, it would be nice and empty, perhaps he could go to that little bookshop along the Rue de Rivieres, it was a long time since he had read anything new, nothing too heavy of course, perhaps something he had read before, Victor Hugo perhaps or maybe even something as simple as an Austen ... 

His mind cut off that avenue of thought with the brutal efficiency of a guillotine - he remembered reading _Emma_ aloud to Christine once. She had been ill - pale, and drowsy, but still beautiful, and so apologetic for all the trouble she was causing; "Erik, honestly, I'm all right, you don't need to go to all this trouble, it's just a touch of cold ..."

__

No ... he shook his head again, trying to shut out her voice, his mind rushing on ahead, frantically busying itself with whatever trivialities it could derive to distract him from her absence.

It really was cold, Ayesha must be hating it, he must see the landlady about some heating as soon as possible, perhaps rent another apartment if this one wasn't living up to scratch which of course it was so far, but one never knew, one could never tell, and of course if the neighbours started posing difficulties, they seemed like a relatively private group, but it was impossible to tell, if they took a dislike life could be made very hard ...

A sudden wave of dizziness cut him off in mid-thought, black spots dancing before his eyes, leaving him fighting against the rapidly enveloping velvet curtain of unconsciousness.

His last lucid thought before he faded into the vast black chasm of infinity was that he wouldn't see Christine's wedding.

***

Erik awoke some time later, his head throbbing. He prayed briefly that the fit had been yet another attack, heralding the release of his escape from this world; but the deeply buried part of him which still possessed common sense told him that his antipathy towards food ever since his arrival in his new flat was infinitely more likely to be the cause of any faintness.

He swore hopelessly, without any real energy, pulling a hand roughly through his hair, welcoming the pain as bearable.

He heard Ayesha mew, and rose slowly, testing his strength. He made his way laboriously over to her, taking her into his arms, welcoming the soft warmth of her body against his. She rubbed her head happily against his face, purring ecstatically. He sighed and dropped her gently onto the bed, going through the almost-empty cupboards, selecting something for her to eat. The irony that the only food in the house was that meant for his cat did not pass him by; under different circumstances, it might have made him smile.

Ayesha ran to the food, and for a few moments, the silence in the flat was broken by her noisy enjoyment. Erik moved stiffly over to the bed and sank down, burying his face in his hands.

__

Oh, God ...

He sat quite still, the wall hard and cold against his back, the streetlamps casting artificial puddles of yellow light on the bare floor, his eyes closing as he finally succumbed to the vision of Christine.

The final sleep ...

Suddenly he felt Ayesha's warmth insistent against his hand, her nose warm and wet, demanding attention. He drew his hand away, the image of Christine drifting closer, almost within his reach, the light becoming brighter, the warmth soothing, her voice so soft ...

__

Erik ...

He heard Ayesha yowl, felt her clawing desperately at his clothes, heard the fine fabric of his jacket rip, felt the air suddenly cold on his skin - and with the sudden shock of cold air the warmth and light receded and Christine melted away from under his fingertips, her face dissolving in a swirl of smoke.

Erik found himself reaching helplessly out to her - but even as he did, he felt Ayesha rub her head across his chest and reached down automatically to stroke her. She gave a contented mew and settled down to sleep on his lap.

He sighed, running a hand mechanically down her back, treasuring the silk of her fur. Had it not been for his little princess, he knew he would never have risen from the bed again.

***

Erik was sitting by the window again, ignoring his friend's noisy entrance.

"Erik?"

His voice was cold. "Daroga."

Nadir ignored the lack of enthusiasm in Erik's voice. "I've arranged a little trip for us."

Erik barely glanced up. "I don't think so."

"Come now, Erik ... you won't refuse me when I've been to so much trouble."

There was a long silence before Erik stood up, resigned. "Very well ..."

After a few minutes, Nadir noticed he was becoming edgy. "Where are we going?" he asked again, his voice tighter than before.

The carriage rounded the corner, and the Opera came into view.

"No," he said tensely, his hand clenching on his knee. "I'm not going in there."

"Yes, you are," said Nadir coolly.

"It may have escaped your notice, Nadir," Erik said with a biting sarcasm which did little to disguise his discomfort, "but there is a significant price on my head in this part of the city. If you want to rid yourself of me that badly, I'm sure there must be an easier way than this."

"Don't be facetious," Nadir said, showing surprising resistance to the lure of Erik's voice. "I've reserved us a private box - we're a few minutes late, no one needs to see us."

Erik's hands were twisting convulsively in the folds of his cloak, his voice barely audible above the clattering of the horses' hooves on the cobbles. "What are you trying to do to me, daroga?"

"You have to face the past before you can forget it," said Nadir quietly. His reasoning sounded weak even to his own ears; he should have come up with a better excuse beforehand ...

Fortunately, Erik's instinctive distress at being so close to the Opera again seemed to have distracted him from Nadir's facile reasoning, his eyes fixed on the building through the window, his hand clenched so tightly on the door that the skin on his knuckles had turned white.

"It's a Thursday," he said, seemingly irrelevantly. 

Nadir nodded, understanding his silent thought processes. He was secretly relieved that Erik could still make the connection; Thursday being one of the days on which Christine was scheduled not to appear. Nadir had a feeling that if Erik thought there was any chance of Christine appearing that night, neither hell nor high water would not have induced him to enter the building.

"I know," he said quietly. "Come on ... we have to go."

As if in a trance, Erik slowly opened his door and stepped out into the street, automatically pulling his hat lower over his eyes. His eyes were distant, and Nadir dreaded to think what was going through his mind, faintly surprised that he was putting up so little resistance.

Neither of them spoke until they were safely ensconced in their box, with the curtains drawn carefully across to shield them from the eyes of the audience. Erik was sitting on the very edge of his seat, every muscle in his body tensed, his hand flexing convulsively on the arm of his chair, his face like stone.

"Relax, Erik," murmured Nadir.

Erik didn't look at him. Suddenly a soprano voice rose above the chorus, and Nadir felt him move, fast and startled, his entire body constricting with shock. He rose, his hand groping blindly at the wall for support, parting the curtains on the side closest to the stage. He stood quite still for a long moment, then turned away and sat back down as though his legs could no longer support him. With a shock, Nadir realised he was shaking, a hand passing over his face, his breathing suddenly ragged.

"You knew she'd be here." He drew a shaking breath, briefly closing his eyes. "What are you trying to do to me?"

There was a silence. Erik rose again, slowly, shakily, and parted the curtains again. He stared down at the stage for a long moment, his hand clenched around the rim of the box with splintering force. He passed a hand across his face and turned away. 

"I don't know what you're trying to do," he said in a very low voice, "but I'm damned if I'm going to wait around to see." He moved towards the door, but Nadir rose quickly to block his path.

"No," he said quietly. "Sit down. You need to be here tonight."

Erik stared at him. "Care to explain why?"

Nadir shook his head. "It's not my place. Christine wants to see you - that's all you need to know." Erik's convulsive reaction to her name did not pass him by.

"And if I don't want to see her?" The words were measured, but the faint trembling of his voice betrayed him.

Nadir raised his eyebrows. "If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you don't want to see her, then we'll leave now." 

Erik looked up. "Give me one good reason why I should listen to anything you have to say. One good reason why I shouldn't walk out of this box right now."

"Don't make this difficult, Erik," Nadir said quietly. "How is she going to feel if she's left all alone in her dressing room after the performance waiting for you and you don't come?"

"Can't imagine," Erik said coldly. "What do I know about unfulfilled expectations?"

"And you'll punish her for that?" 

Erik didn't reply. 

"One last performance, Erik. One last chance to hear her sing, to talk with her face to face - and then if you want it to be over, you can walk away and never come back."

Erik rose and stared down at the stage again.

"She must be mad," he murmured distantly, shaking his head. He looked down at the stage and turned away, slamming his hand against the wall of the box with frustrated anguish.

Nadir rose uncomfortably. "Erik ..."

Erik turned very quickly away from him, his voice suddenly very cold, strained with tension. "Don't touch me, daroga - a few moments alone, if you please."

"Erik ...?"

"Go!"

Erik heard Nadir hasten out of the box, the door closing behind him, and the faint buzz of conversation as he encountered someone else in the corridor.

Erik leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, swallowing hard. He rose, brushing back the curtain, and stared down at her for a long moment. 

__

It doesn't make any sense ...

To help his enemies set a trap for him one month and arrange a private meeting the next? He sighed. Perhaps he was becoming less cynical in his old age ... 

If it was another trap, it was an excruciatingly clumsy one ... he would have expected better from her. Perhaps that was the whole idea ... that he would never believe that a trap could be so blatant ...

He sighed again, and, looking down at her onstage - twirling round, her hair creating a halo around her head, her face lit up with one of her heartbreakingly beautiful smiles - he realised it didn't matter. Ambush or not, he couldn't turn down the chance to see her again - and if his life should end on a glimpse of her, perhaps the chance to touch the hem of her dress - it would be the best of all deaths.

He knelt on the floor at the front of the box, resting his hand on the wall and closed his eyes to hear her sing one last time.

More than he had dared to hope for ...

***

Nadir paced uneasily up and down the corridor, wondering whether or not he dared re-enter the box. He tiptoed to the door and pushed it open a crack, praying it wouldn't squeak. It didn't; it opened just far enough to enable him a view of Erik kneeling on the floor, his head bent, barely seeming to breathe, a faint tremor in his shoulders; and Nadir realised he was weeping silently.

He hastily backed away with a silent curse and pulled the door to again. At least this slightly off-key rendezvous had awakened something of the old emotion in him; although whether or not it would prove positive was still a question of vaguely worrying doubt in Nadir's mind.

He paused outside the door a moment longer, before turning and making his way down the corridor to the Rotunda; a double brandy might help steady his nerves for the tension which would inevitably accompany the forthcoming meeting.

***

As the performance ended, Nadir cautiously re-entered the box amidst a storm of applause from the audience. Erik had resumed his seat in the chair and was staring into space with studied indifference. 

"Erik?"

Erik looked up slowly. "It would have to be Meyerbeer, wouldn't it," he said reflectively.

Nadir wondered briefly whether or not to ask; and decided that, on balance, it would be a bad idea. 

"Shall we go?" he asked gently.

Erik remained motionless a moment longer, doubtless steeling himself for the ordeal which lay ahead. Finally he looked up, and the look in his eyes suddenly made Nadir doubt that he was doing the right thing.

"Why all this, Nadir?" he asked, his voice quietly controlled. "What is she trying to do?"

Nadir shook his head slowly. "That, my friend, is something that only she can tell you."

Erik passed a hand through his hair. "One day she will learn that to play with fire is to risk a burn," he murmured, more to himself than to Nadir.

There was a moment's silence. Nadir hesitated, feeling uncomfortably out of place. A long moment passed before Erik clenched his fists briefly, rose, and settled his cloak around his shoulders again.

"Very well, Nadir," he said with a forced nonchalance which did not sound quite easy. "We mustn't keep the lady waiting."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N - T'eyla Minh! Nice to see you back, I wondered if you were still reading :) Speaking of reading ... how's part four coming along? *hint hint* I know, subtle as a sledgehammer :P But I hold tight to the hope that one day you will write it!

And Kristi ... I know it was a long time. I'm sorry :( So this short upload time is for you!!

Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed; I appreciate it so so much :) Much love and hugs to everyone!!

Oh, and quick plot hole - since the last chapter, Raoul and Christine have spoken, and agreed (very amicably) to call off the engagement. Usual stuff - they're both too young, just friends, mistook their feelings for love ... if anyone's interested in reading it, then email me and I'll send it to you, but I didn't want to add it into this chapter because that would just make it toooo long. And I don't write good R/C :P Now, this is the last-but-one chapter (unless I decide to do something really weird!) so it's largely just setting the scene for the final showdown. Dun dun dun ...!! Really hope you all enjoy! Hugs and kisses :)

Erik and Nadir made their way through the back passages to Christine's dressing room, Erik keeping his face averted from the crowds of operagoers.

Nadir realised Erik was trembling.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"You astonish me, daroga," Erik replied icily, his eyes fixedly ahead. "You ask as though you care."

Nadir sighed and gave up trying to make conversation. Erik was always quite impossible when he was nervous, covering his anxiety with icy sarcasm.

Outside the door to Christine's dressing room, he hesitated. Nadir laid a hand lightly on his arm, and was surprised at the violence with which he started. 

He covered his face with his hands for a moment and took a deep breath. "This is a bad idea, you know," he murmured.

"No, it isn't," said Nadir quietly. "Go on."

Erik, seeming to be steeling himself for the inevitable pain Christine would bring, knocked sharply on the door and pushed it open.

He had a brief glimpse of Christine sitting in a small chair, her hair loose around her shoulders, watching the mirror, before she rose hastily, obviously startled, passing a hand nervously through her hair in an effort to regain her composure. She gestured towards the mirror and tried to laugh. "The one time I think I'm prepared for you through the mirror ..." There was an awkward silence. 

Am impartial observer would have said that Erik was quite at ease, but Nadir could see the tenseness in his shoulders and it had not escaped his attention that his friend's fist had clenched very tightly around the back of a chair. 

There was a long silence, Christine tugging her hand nervously through her hair, clearly embarrassed and characteristically at a loss for what to say.

Finally Nadir moved forward and motioned to Christine to take a seat. "Why don't you sit down."

"Umm ..." She looked around, then shook her head. "Actually, I'd rather not ... this probably isn't the best place to do this. Anyone could walk in ..."

As if to prove her point, a knock came at the door. Christine looked around wildly, her hand automatically rising to her mouth. 

"One moment, please!" she called, gesturing frantically for Nadir to sit down as if they were in the middle of a conversation. Nadir glanced around, but Erik had disappeared.

Christine sat down opposite Nadir and ran a hand through her hair. "Come in," she called.

The door opened, and Meg appeared in the doorway, all fluffy blonde hair and pink ballet skirt.

"Christine, where on earth have you ..." She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Nadir, colour rising in her cheeks. "Oh, I'm sorry!" One hand rose to her face. "I didn't know you had company ..." A few moments of fluttering awkwardness, then she pressed Christine's hand quickly. "I'll ... I'll see you later ..." She scurried out of the room, accidentally banging the door behind her.

Christine laughed softly despite her nerves. "I think we'd better go." She looked around. "Where's Erik?"

There was a brief pause before Erik's voice drifted out of the shadows.

"Is she still leading the corps de ballet?"

Christine looked confused. "I ... yes. Why ...?"

"I like to ensure that things still run along smoothly in my absence."

Christine frowned, looking even more confused. "All right ..."

Erik's voice played along the walls of the room. "Very well, Christine. You called me here to talk ... presumably you have something you wish to say to me."

Christine rose nervously, apparently lost for words again. She laughed tensely. "I don't really know what to say."

Erik sighed, his voice echoing around the small dressing room. "A great philosopher once said that when there is nothing to say, it is best to be silent. And I think that perhaps ... leaving this unsaid would be best - for both of us."

While Nadir rose to his feet in alarm and Christine whirled around, her eyes searching the shadows frantically for him, his voice drifted towards her. "Adieu, Christine - I dare say we will not meet again."

***

Erik leant his aching head back on the coldness of the wall and closed his eyes. It was dark in the passage, and he felt an overwhelming urge to sink down and drown in the shadows - just to close his eyes and let the darkness claim him ...

He could still hear Christine sobbing and Nadir's awkward attempts to comfort her; for a moment, he was tempted to let his voice drift through the walls and dry her tears. He knew he still could ... but _no_. He turned away, his head aching and his throat sore beyond belief.

It is better this way, he told himself firmly. Better for all of us ...

The sound of Christine's sobs haunted him as he made his way slowly out of the theatre and into the street. 

***

"Christine, please, shh, calm down, child ..." Nadir slipped an arm around Christine's shoulder and silently cursed Erik. She turned her face into his shoulder, her fingers curling in her lap.

"What did I do wrong?" she wept. "Why couldn't he have waited to hear me out?"

"I don't know," murmured Nadir. "Please, try to calm down. This can't be good for you."

With a mighty effort, she stood up and made her way over to her dressing table, where she found a handkerchief and blotted her face with it. When she turned back to him a few minutes later, her face was still tear-streaked but calmer.

"I don't understand," she said softly, her voice threatening to break. "Why is he being like this?" She bit back a sob and turned quickly away from Nadir, making herself very busy with rummaging through her dressing table. "Does he not love me anymore?"

She felt Nadir's hands on her arms, turning her to face him. "You mustn't think that!" He released her, but his voice was sufficiently urgent to ensure she did not turn away from him. "Truly, mademoiselle ... when the rocks of this earth crumble to dust and pigs fly over the frozen surface of hell, he will still love you."

Christine looked at him for a moment, before turning away to sit down on a small hard-backed chair. "I'm so confused," she whispered, more to herself than to Nadir.

Nadir took a deep breath. "Mademoiselle ... forgive me the impertinence of what I am about to say. I ... heard about the breaking of the engagement between you and Monsieur le Vicomte. Do ... do you mind if I ask you why?"

Christine laughed softly and pulled her hair back out of her face. "No, I don't mind you asking," she said sadly. "I'm not sure I can give you a real reason, though. I think ..." she sighed and pulled a hand back through her hair again. "I think perhaps he's falling in love with somebody else."

Whatever Nadir had expected, it wasn't this. "Oh, mademoiselle ... I'm so sorry ..."

She laughed shortly. "Don't be," she said with a forced smile. "Frankly, I'm not quite sure I'm not doing exactly the same thing." Her hands flew up to cover her mouth in horror. "I shouldn't have said that!"

His hands were on her arms again, urgent, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "Mademoiselle, what do you mean?"

She turned from him, rubbing her hand over her face, shaking her head. "No, no, nothing, I didn't mean to say it!"

"That doesn't mean you didn't mean it. Please, mademoiselle ... trust me just a little."

There was a long moment of silence, before she turned back to him, her face tear-streaked. "I don't know," she whispered. "I'm just so confused ..."

"Erik?" he said, very softly. She looked him in the eyes, looking very much like a frightened little girl, and nodded slowly.

"I don't understand," she murmured, turning away from Nadir and sitting down again, hiding her face in her hands. Her voice came again, muffled. "And now he won't even talk to me ..." She burst into tears again, and Nadir gently took her into his arms, rocking her like a child.

"Shh, it's all right," he murmured, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Don't upset yourself." He held her until her tears ceased, then gently helped her into a chair. "I'm going to go and see him."

"You won't tell him?" She caught hold of his sleeve, suddenly anxious. "You mustn't tell him!" She stared at him, her blue eyes beseeching. "Please!"

He shook his head. "Don't worry," he said softly. "All will be well."

***

Erik poured himself a generous measure of brandy and stared into the glass for a few moments before sinking into a chair and closing his eyes. His mind felt utterly blank. For the first time in months, he could not summon the energy to think of Christine; he could not summon the energy to think of anything. He vaguely registered Ayesha leaping up to perch on the arm of the chair beside him, rubbing her head against his arm, and he reached up absently to stroke her.

Suddenly there came a loud banging on the door. Usually, such aggression would have sent him straight into the shadows, but today he knew ... knew it would be Nadir, furious at his loss of nerve. Why couldn't he understand that it was just too hard to be so close to her ...?

The banging on the door redoubled in volume. He sighed, downed the brandy in one, and rose apathetically to open the door.

***

Cosette heard a knock on the door, and heard the rustle of Maya Firmin's skirts as she rose to answer it. She lay back on the couch, feeling drained of all energy. Part of her mind rebelled against the thought of the display she had made; horror at the memory of her dreadful loss of composure ...

She sighed. _What must Raoul have thought ..._

She heard a muted buzz of conversation, then the words filtered into her consciousness, "May I see her?"

There was a brief pause before Maya made a sound of assent and she heard the footsteps of someone crossing the room. She closed her eyes, immeasurably weary as they knelt beside her; probably one of the managers, come to castigate her for her stunning lack of deportment ...

She felt gentle fingers brush a lock of hair away from her face, heard the figure rising.

"I think she's asleep."

Cosette sat up, awake and suddenly desperate for his comfort.

"Raoul?"

He turned back to her and smiled, kneeling again by her side. She suddenly felt shy, and fought the urge to blush ..._ what must he think of her_ ...

He took her hand, very gently, his eyes searching hers. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, stroking the back of her hand.

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks. "I'm fine, I ..." She sounded so asinine, so weakly feminine, so much like a ballet rat ...! She hated herself in that moment. She gathered all her strength and forced out one of her winning smiles, pushing herself up on the pillows and wishing she could brush her hair. "Raoul, I'm so sorry, I can't imagine what inspired me to behave like that ..."

"Oh no." He was shaking his head now, a finger up against her lips. "No, you don't. You're not brushing this off so lightly. Something was seriously wrong; and you're going to tell me what it was."

Something inside Cosette realised the irony that, for the first time in her life, a man was dominating her; and it worried her that she could find so little energy to resist.

"Honestly, it was nothing ..."

"Nonsense," he said firmly. His eyes softened, and he took her hand again. "Cosette, don't push me away. I thought we were friends."

Cosette fought the urge to cry. "Why, Raoul, what a thing to say!" she managed lightly, but it sounded weak even to her ears. "Of course we're friends."

"So why won't you tell me what was wrong?" His voice was gentle, his hand on hers soft. Cosette didn't reply.

He sighed and laid his hat on the table. "The flowers," he said quietly. "They were from him, weren't they? I always thought that strange ... that you should react so badly to a gift ... who is he, Cosette?"

Cosette closed her eyes on tears and forced herself to take a deep breath. And suddenly she knew it was no good; she couldn't fight Raoul's concern any longer.

"His name is Tom Chandler," she began, her voice wavering. "I come from a little village called St Martin-de-Boscherville ..."

***

Nadir was pacing up and down the floor, furious. "What are you playing at, Erik? How hard would it have been simply to stay and listen to her? She had nothing to do with that pitiful trap, you know!"

Erik did not turn. "I know."

"So why such discourtesy?" Erik made no comment, and Nadir lost his temper for the first time in almost twenty years. "I thought you loved her!"

Erik whirled around, his eyes glittering dangerously. "For the love of God, daroga, I _do_ love her!"

There was a sudden silence as his words hung in the air. Nadir found himself suddenly speechless; it was so unlike Erik to express emotion to anyone else.

Erik turned away, his voice suddenly weary. 

"Of course I love her. More than anything else in the world; but _it has to stop_. I can't ... I can't trust myself around her anymore." He poured himself a glass of brandy and swallowed it, continuing to stare into the empty glass. "It would have been better if she had never known me."

He swallowed another measure of brandy, his fingers tightening around the empty glass until his knuckles showed white. 

"And now, she will marry him, and she will forget me ..." He dropped the glass abruptly on the table and crossed his arms across his chest. "And she will be happy." He crossed the room to stand by the fireplace. "And that is all that matters."

Nadir finally found his voice. "And what about you?"

Erik shrugged with indifference. "What about me."

"What will you do without her?"

"Presumably the same as I have done the other fifty or so years of my life without her." Erik sounded merely bored now. 

"And Christine?"

"What of her."

"What do you think she'll do without you?"

Erik's voice was now icy. "Don't mock me, daroga."

"Believe me, I don't. But don't you think she might perhaps have something to say about this?"

" 'Thank God'?" Erik suggested with a cold sarcasm which warned Nadir he was not willing to be pushed much further.

"Don't be flippant, Erik. She doesn't want to lose you ..."

"For God's sake, daroga!" Erik turned away, pouring himself another measure of brandy. "She isn't just going on holiday, you know! She's getting _married_. Forgive me if I don't want to be around to see that!"

"No, she isn't."

There was a long silence, before Erik turned back to him. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"She isn't getting married."

Erik's voice came, guarded, cautious. "Care to elaborate?"

Nadir sighed and sat down. "She wanted to tell you this herself ... she and Monsieur le Vicomte had a ... discussion, of sorts, and the decision was reached that the engagement was something of a mistake." He hesitated. "I believe she received the impression that another young lady might be involved ..."

The expression in Erik's eyes changed. "I'll kill him."

"No. It was a mutual agreement ... I believe Christine herself had begun to fear that it had been a mistake."

There was a very long silence. Erik moved over to the piano, spreading his fingers restlessly over the polished wood. After a long moment of silence, Nadir rose quietly, collected his cloak, and left his friend alone to make what he could of his news.

The next step had to be taken by him.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N - Is taking lines from (in my opinion) the greatest romance author ever to write cheating? I've cut out a bit of the prose and kept the dialogue, just to make it flow better :)

Stemwinder: *giggles* Well, I'll tell you one thing for free - he doesn't go back! Let me know if you still want to punjab him by the end ... :P

I honestly can't thank all my reviewers enough; you guys are what keep me going and give me inspiration when I'm writing, and it really makes my day to get reviews. Thank you so much! Hugs and kisses to Estella Havisham, Ayla, Christine Persephone, jo, Maya, Daroga's Rainy Daae,T'eyla Minh,angelofnight, Diana, Desolator-the Dragon, Trinity,Kt, Morauko, AriesSolar,diagram12345, Darkest-Knight88,panther7x,Angel of Passions, Jennifer, Kates, chicketieboo,Manaliabrid, Esgalfeniel, Jenny, Krista Shafer, Shiro, Stemwinder, psycho pixie, Phantomgurl33, Ash, Elenmir,Laura, kirby russell, Rai, Lavendar. Also to everyone who's donated ideas and encouragement outside the ff.n medium! I love you all very much.

Disclaimer: Quite a few of the lines in this chapter are taken from Jane Austen's _Emma_, and they're all hers :) Also mild spoilers for _Emma_ (but nothing that any fan of Jane Austen won't figure out in the first few pages of the book!!) If anyone hasn't read _Emma_ and has a problem with that, then email me cat_midas@hotmail.com and I'll try to rewrite it without the quotes. *crosses fingers* Hope I can!! Also a paragraph from Elizabeth George's _A Suitable Vengeance_ (which was published in 1991, so not quite in the time frame - but it seemed to fit so well!!) Oh - and a line from Sonnet 116. Can't beat Shakespeare :)

Erik moved restlessly round the flat, the streetlights outside playing yellow over the dingy walls, sounds of the wrong side of Paris filtering through the walls. A girl's scream, the shouting of boys, a woman's laughter ...

He turned quickly away from the window and took a book at random from the shelves, barely registering the title in his haste for mental activity. If he could only think of something other than her, it would be all right. He would get through it.

He opened the book at random, two-thirds of the way in. The first paragraph leapt out at him.

__

He shook his head blindly, as if by that movement he could shake off his terrible desolation. "I think I shall die of loneliness, Helen." His voice broke horribly, the sound of a man who hadn't allowed himself to experience a single emotion in years. "I can't bear it."

He started to turn from her, to go back to his desk, but she stopped him and closed the remaining space between them. She took him into her arms.

"You're not alone, Tommy," she said quite gently.

He began to cry.

Erik slammed the book shut and dropped it, shaking all over. _God._ He buried his head briefly in his hands. It was no good. She was everything; she was in the very air he breathed. He would never be free of her.

Erik heard a knock at the door and swore with hopeless vehemence.

__

Damn you, daroga!

Would a few hours of solitude be so much to ask for without interference? The knock came again, louder this time. He sighed, downed his measure of brandy, and rose to open the door.

She had been looking back down the dark stairwell, but upon hearing the door open, she turned back to him and let down the hood of her cloak. She tried to smile.

"May I come in?"

***

Raoul took Cosette gently into his arms and stroked her hair. She was biting her lip, trying to compose herself, but he could tell how close she was to tears.

"I had to get away," she was saying. "I don't know what was worse, the ones who pitied me or the ones who thought he'd done the right thing." She sniffed and dragged a hand savagely across her face.

Raoul was shaking his head, his arms tightening around her. "The bastard," he murmured. "You deserve so much better."

She laughed bitterly. "You really don't know me very well at all, do you, Raoul?" she said miserably. "You have this stupid vision of me as some sort of wronged angel; but it isn't like that. It really isn't."

"What is it like, then?" he asked quietly. "If I see you wrong, tell me what's right." 

Cosette took a long, shuddering breath. "There's something you ... don't know about me," she began slowly. She laughed suddenly. "God, I sound like a bad detective novel. But ..." she sighed and ran her hand back through her hair. "I was hired by Monsieur Firmin as ... bait, I suppose - to try and catch the Opera Ghost."

She felt Raoul stiffen at the mention of the ghost. "I'm not a dancer. I'm just here as ... God knows what, really."

Raoul withdrew his arms from around her, looking confused and hurt. "I don't understand ..." he murmured. "Why would you take a job like that?"

She sighed. "In the town where I come from ..." She took a deep breath and continued. "There was a woman named Madeleine. She was very old when I knew her, of course ... but there was something about her. There was something of ... almost a local legend about her. She had a son, when she was much younger ... her first and only child. He was ... deformed ..." She felt Raoul stiffen and continued, "deformed from birth. The village persecuted them; he was stabbed, her windows were broken ... they called him a child of Satan." She drew a deep breath. "He disappeared ... he ran away. Everyone thought him dead ... but Madeleine was so sure that he was alive. So sure that he would have survived ..." Her face hardened. "She had suffered, so much. What sort of son would pain his mother like that?" Her voice lowered. "She and I became very close; I was very young, but we were so alike. She was almost like a surrogate mother to me ..." She sighed. "And when she died, I was heartbroken. I missed her, so much. And then I heard the rumours ... a ghost, deformed, a musical genius ..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I wanted to meet him, to tell him how unhappy he had made his mother, to find out why ... I was so sure it was him."

"And ... was it?" Raoul's voice sounded guarded.

She laughed suddenly. "To be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea. I've never been able to get close enough to even think about talking to him ... I just don't know." She sighed. "And I'm not even sure Madeleine would have wanted me to know."

There was a long moment of silence, before Raoul reached out and took her hand. "It doesn't matter now," he said quietly.

"No," she agreed sadly. "Let the past be."

There was another moment of silence, before she laughed uncomfortably. "Goodness, I've been monopolising your time most shamefully. Thank you for coming to see me; I dare say I'll see you around the Opera from time to time."

Raoul didn't move. "And that's what you want, is it?"

She laughed again, awkwardly. "What other alternative is there?"

"Marry me," he said in a rush, taking her hand. "I love you, Cosette, and I won't believe you couldn't come to love me. Marry me, and I'll take you away from all this. We could go to Germany, or to England, Sweden ... anywhere you like."

"I ..." Cosette felt faint. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," he entreated. "I love you."

"I ..." she swallowed, going scarlet again. "Yes!"

He stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh, taking her into his arms. She laughed helplessly, covering her face with one hand. 

He stroked her hair back from her eyes, tipping her head backwards so that he could look her in the face.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked softly. Cosette nodded slowly, but the flicker of fear in her eyes did not pass him by.

"Yes," she said, but there was a tremor in her voice.

He pulled her closer to him, feeling her stiffen slightly and then relax, and he realised just how afraid she was of commitment.

"We'll take it slowly," he promised. "Just as slowly as you want it."

As he kissed the top of her head, he could feel that she had begun to cry, and he tilted her face up to his.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

She snuffled and dragged her hand across her face. "Nothing!" she said fiercely. "It's so stupid! I never cry!"

He laughed and pulled her close to him again. "Hardly a wronged angel," he said with a smile. "You're one angel I'd never dare wrong."

Cosette laughed through her tears and buried her face in Raoul's chest.

***

Christine stepped into the house and stopped at the sudden darkness. 

"Erik ..."

He brushed past her and lit a gas lamp, shaking out the spent match and dropping it onto the table. He was suddenly very aware of the emptiness of the flat; apart from the vast wall of books he had retrieved from the Opera and the violin which lay slowly gathering dust in the corner, it was utterly devoid of any personal effects. He could see her looking around the flat with horrified astonishment and suddenly wished with all his heart that he had prepared it properly for her. Not that he could seriously entertain the hope of her staying for longer than a few minutes; but it was so wrong to have her in such an atmosphere. Even for a moment.

The air was already electric with her presence; he was already clenching his hands into fists in an effort to stop them shaking. 

She turned back to him and tried to smile. "I ..."

He raised one eyebrow. "What can I do for you, my dear?"

She laughed forcedly and gestured awkwardly around the flat. "We didn't exactly get off to an auspicious start at the Opera ... I thought it might be easier to talk away from there."

He nodded with studied calm and gestured to a chair. "Do take a seat, my dear. May I get you anything to drink?"

"Oh ... tea, please." She smiled nervously as she watched him move with studied feline grace into the kitchen and heat the water. "Thank you." She took the cup from him, noting miserably how automatically he moved his fingers away from hers.

"So ..." he settled back into a chair and made a slight, graceful gesture with his fingers in the air. "You say you want to talk."

She nodded nervously, closing her fingers around her teacup. "Yes ..." she coughed and sat up straighter. "There was just something I wanted you to know ..."

He gestured lightly with his fingers again. "Yes, my dear?"

"It's about Raoul." She looked up cautiously, as if unsure of what his reaction would be.

"Yes?" Erik's voice was guarded.

"Well, we've ... we've broken off our engagement."

Erik nodded cautiously. "I had heard something to that effect."

Christine smiled nervously. "I just ... thought you ought to know."

There was a long pause.

"What I haven't heard is why."

She looked up sharply and saw him cradling Ayesha, his eyes fixed on the little cat. She sighed and dragged a hand back through her hair, unaware of Erik's eyes on her as the light caught in her curls. Her eyes met his, and he looked away, drawing one finger lightly down Ayesha's back, the cat arching in ecstasy under his caress.

Her explanation was short and stilted, leaving out - although whether by accident or design he couldn't tell - the one detail he really wanted to know.

He finally tipped Ayesha from his lap onto the floor. She stalked away, offended, and he looked Christine in the eyes for the first time.

"Do you love him?"

She looked up, startled. "I ..." she began, colouring, floundering, then finding her words. "No." She sat up a little straighter. "I don't. I think I did ... I won't go all Austian heroine and claim I never cared for him, but ... not now. Too much has happened. Too much has changed."

She tried to laugh in an effort to relieve the tension. "Although God knows I think Meg will kill me when she finds out I've broken it off!"

There was a brief pause, in which she looked down at her hands folded in her lap, then she heard him laugh softly, and looked up in surprise. 

"Do you remember last Easter?" he asked softly. "You were ill ..."

She laughed and nodded, shaking her hair back from her face. "You read me _Emma_." She smiled wistfully, remembering how tenderly attentive he had been to her then. "I wasn't really ill ... it was just a cold, really."

There was a brief pause.

"Read it to me again," she requested suddenly. Erik looked up in surprise. 

"As you wish," he said cautiously, rising to pick the book out of the vast wall of bookshelves. Austen, Austen ... right at the beginning of the collection. He selected the book and sat back down on the chair opposite Christine.

"Where would you like me to start?"

She pondered for a moment, then smiled. "From the discovery of Frank's engagement ... when Mr Weston comes to tell Emma. You remember?"

He nodded. "Of course." He flicked through the novel for a moment, and found the chapter he was looking for. He glanced up at Christine and smiled suddenly. "Are you sitting comfortably, mademoiselle?" She giggled. "I'll take that as a yes." He heard her laugh and smiled inwardly.

He cleared his throat. "One morning, about ten days after Mrs Churchill's decease ..."

For an hour or more, his voice rose and fell, and Christine found herself lost in the story again. Erik was aware, about fifteen minutes after he had begun to read, of Christine rising, and moving silently across the room to kneel at his feet, her head resting on the arm of his chair, her hair spilling over his fingers.

" 'My dearest Emma,' said he, 'for dearest you shall always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma - tell me at once. Say 'no', if it is to be said.' "

There was a brief silence. " 'I ...' " Erik cleared his throat and began again. " 'I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more; but you know what I am.' "

Christine lifted her head slowly to meet his eyes. The moment was suddenly strained, fraught with tension, as he hesitantly took her hand and raised her to sit beside him. 

"But ... you know what I am, better than anyone else in the world. And ... and I cannot be wise." He looked away from her. "Silence is golden, they say ... and the truth painful. But sometimes it must be spoken ..." There was a moment of tense silence.

"That isn't from _Emma_," Christine whispered, barely knowing what she said.

"No ..." She could feel Erik draw a deep breath. "No ... I can't script happy endings as well as Jane Austen could."

"I don't think many people can," she whispered, acutely aware of how close they were to each other, slightly frightened by the intensity of the expression in his eyes.

"No ..." They had unconsciously moved closer to each other.. He swallowed hard and searched his mind for words, but now that the moment had come, they all seemed to have deserted him.

She reached out to him, unsure of whether she was doing the right thing. "What are you trying to say?"

He looked her in the eyes for the first time. "How can you even need to ask me that?" he asked quietly. "I love you."

There was a long moment of stunned silence, in which Christine stared wordlessly at him and Erik turned away from her in despair.

"Erik ..."

He raised one hand, shaking his head. "No ... don't say it. Just ... don't say anything. I know --"

And then suddenly her hands were on his shoulders, forcing him to face her, one hand tracing his hair, before she threw herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest. Erik stiffened and made as if to pull away, but she caught hold of his arms and began to speak, very fast.

"Don't say another word," she whispered, her fingers tightening around his arms. "Let me do the talking for once." She took a deep breath. "God, Jane Austen would have done this better."

He turned his face away from her. "Christine, please ..."

"I love you," she whispered.

There was a long moment of utter silence. Christine sank to the floor, suddenly feeling weak, and felt rather than saw Erik kneel beside her.

"Erik ..." she whispered, on the verge of tears. "Say something. Please."

He was shaking his head. "I ... I don't ..." He passed a hand across his face. "Oh, God. I ... I can't think what to say."

And then she was in his arms, sobbing into his chest, her hands in his hair, clinging to him with a desperation which made his heart tighten.

He held her very gently for a long time, treasuring the soft weight of her body against his, until she ceased to cry and lay still in his arms. She turned slowly and looked beseechingly up into his face.

"Please don't send me away," she whispered.

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then shook his head and buried his face in her hair. "No," he whispered, his voice muffled. His arms tightened around her and she relaxed against him, laying her head on his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart. She felt him kiss her hair, and she snuggled closer to him, his arms gentle around her.

"I love you," she whispered, and felt him shudder.

"Oh God." His arms tightened around her. "Oh, God, I love you."

She let out a little sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and buried her face in his chest. He held her very still for a long time, until she finally drifted off to sleep in his arms.

Erik lifted her gently and lowered her onto the bed, covering her with a blanket and brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

That he had ever entertained the possibility of forgetting her ... he knelt by the side of the bed and watched her sleep.

"Ah, no," he murmured to himself, his lips curving into a smile, "it is an ever-fixéd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken ..." He touched his fingers lightly to her face and rose lightly to look out of the window.

The sky had darkened, spotted here and there by stars, clouds drifting across the surface of the moon.

He could remember Marie Perrault once taking him by the hand and leading him out into the garden to look at the stars. "If you wish upon a star, Erik dear, your wish will come true."

He hadn't believed her. Dreams didn't come true, he had known that even at the age of seven, and nothing in his adult life had occurred to shake that conviction.

But now ... he turned back to look at Christine, beautiful in sleep, her lips curved into an unconscious smile, her hair tangled on the pillow.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

__

An ever-fixéd mark ... he knelt beside Christine and kissed her hand.

Perhaps sometimes dreams do come true. 

~ FIN ~


End file.
